Sunday, 24 June 2007

Chapter 3 - Memory induction - the early days


"Nothing in Nature is random. ... A thing appears random only through the incompleteness of our knowledge.''
Benedict Spinoza

My mind drifted as memories of the past flooded my consciousness. How did it all start? Well let’s go back in time to understand how I got into this mess.

Why did I choose to become a heroin addict?

“Well tonight on ‘Why did I become a junkie’ we will answer all those questions and more we have Dave, who by the way suffers from insomnia and well he likes his downers now, Dave’s a bit partial to the old smack, why do think he does it? Please select the correct response from the options below. “

  1. On a mission from God
  2. A Truman Show/Joe Schmo style sucker in a fake reality TV program
  3. A selfish hedonist
  4. Emotionally retarded
  5. Fucking stupid
  6. A chicken is just an egg’s way of making another egg
  7. There are an infinite number of explanations
  8. A combination of them all
  9. Soylent Green
  10. A gamer

So let’s dig deeper to find the correct answer.

Memory is a curious thing. It is based upon perception using the highly inaccurate human senses.

'The observer creates the universe that he or she interacts with.'

Werner Heisenberg

Every second our nervous system is bombarded with about 2 million bits of information. Of these 2 million bits we absorb and process about 134. So every second we are missing out on about 1, 999, 866 bits of information. Furthermore, in any given moment we can only hold about 5 – 9 things in our conscious mind.

With our language we further affect the information that we absorb by doing three things, deleting certain aspects of our experience, distorting events to make them bigger or smaller and generalizing by taking one experience and applying to a whole range of similar situations.

It’s necessary for our survival. If we tried to process every piece of available information we would be overloaded. We decide where we will look and what we will see. We don’t see the world as it is we see it as we are. Where do you choose to focus your attention.

From this limited perception of the world we each create our own maps. A map is never a completely accurate. It is always removed from the reality of the object it refers to. Yet often in our lives we act as if the maps that we have created are solid tangible facts that are unchangeable.

“Nothing exists until or unless it is observed. An artist is making something exist by observing it. And his hope for other people is that they will also make it exist by observing it. I call it "creative observation." Creative viewing.
William S. Burroughs

In India baby elephants are tethered to stakes that hold them fast. At first they struggle and strain with all their might to break free but in time they give up certain that what holds them is unbreakable. As their bodies grow and mature they develop astounding strength but because they have created a limiting belief based on an outdated map of the world they are unable to break free.

“Burroughs became convinced that everyone was so conditioned by language that even that which they believed to be straight perception (via sight, sound, touch) was in fact an illusion -- a filtered version of reality, with the filters embedded in our language. Because of this awareness, he became obsessed with issues of social control, thought control-- at a level much more subtle, and thus more pernicious, than the outward laws and regulations challenged by Ginsberg and others (as they battled "anti-obscenity" laws and other free speech issues). The kind of social control Burroughs saw wasn't even encoded in the law. It was programmed into your own brain -- through assumptions and associations -- just as it had been for Carr and Ginsberg in '44 when they were unable to see that they could choose to define (and pursue) art in any way they saw fit. “

Unknown author(rotten.com)


There is no reality. We each live in our own limited by our culture, gender and race. People we call friends share have maps that overlap with ours, people we just cant seem to connect with have maps in which there is little if any overlap with our own.

Everyone is in a trance and this trance we call reality. There is no world there is no reality, everything is an illusion.

Time is a loop like a cassette tape that passes onward and onward. Will Christ come again of course he will, it is inevitable the endlessly repeating cycles.

Earthbound gods like Jesus, Prometheus and Odin took on physical incarnations to learn about themselves. Prometheus was bound to the earth when Zeus chained him to a rock for giving the secret of fire to humanity. Zeus sent Pandora to open a box, releasing all the horrors we suffer in life. Jesus comes to earth to help humanity and in the process is crucified. Odin wandered about in human form in search of wisdom. He allowed himself to be blinded and crucified in the hope of learning the wisdom of mortality. And what is this wisdom we mortals alone can know?

“Prometheus, on the other hand, whose name means Forthinker, wanted human beings to become seers, conscious beings aware of our circumstances, awakened to our existence. “

The microcosm is the macrocosm and we can see the entire Universe inside ourselves.

“To me consciousness is best described as the experience of separateness. An infant, for example, is not conscious of its surroundings because it is unable to distinguish itself from those surroundings.”

“The boldest speculations of the human mind concerning the nature of the phenomenal world, namely that the wheeling stars and the whole course of human history are but the phantasmagoria of a divine dream, become, when applied to the inner dream, a scientific probability. “

Carl Jung

“Most of us consider the phenomenal world, that is, our physical world, to be the apex of reality, and our sensory perception the ultimate test of reality. What I’m seeing on the computer is merely energy. It has no real substance. Quantum physics tells us the Universe is really made up of fields of energy. Our senses can only perceive matter, however, so we don’t usually perceive the Universe as it really is, as energy. In a way, then, we can say that we are living in a virtual world! The material world around us is virtual reality, but not reality. It is merely a collection of sensory images placed on the screen of sensual perception, indicative of a greater force that cannot be sensed.”

unknown author

The illusion holds power over you when you are not able to remember that you are a powerful spirit that has taken on the physical experience for the purpose of learning.”

Gary Zukav

(Physicist)

“The word therapy means assisting the gods, is learning to distinguish our own feelings, in other words, to achieve a higher level of consciousness about ourselves.”

Unknown author

Certain things in my life seem to follow other events and so on. But what is real and what is imagined? What follows is a flawed account of my memories of my experience, based on my perceptions of the events. Therefore, it is not a complete rendition of events, it is skewed, biased and distorted.

I was born in Detroit the motor city, capital of Michigan USA. Or was I? A piece of paper says so, I have no memory of it but people tell me it’s true. Shortly after I was born someone thought that it might be a good idea to chop off the end of my penis, to fulfil a quaint tradition. So there I was bathing in the glow of an oxytocin high and then this bloke puts a clamp on my foreskin and chops the bloody thing off without any anaesthetic. What a great introduction to this crazy planet.

I screamed and shook with pain at this assault and I immediately wondered whether coming to earth was such a good idea. The burning pain in my penis made me gasp for breath who the fuck are these barbarians I thought. Its called circumcision but more aptly known as male genital mutilation.

The quotes below come from this website http://www.norm-uk.org/what_intact_men_say.html from men who still have their foreskins.

“My foreskin is sensitive (pleasurably so) when my penis is flaccid or erect and plays a great part in my sexual activity and pleasure."

"the vaunted gliding motion of the foreskin is the key, but so is the tingling of the foreskin itself; uncut men seem to have the capacity to get and keep erections more easily, and have multiple orgasms"

"when the glans is covered, every movement of my foreskin along the shaft can trigger an orgasm, but by far most stimulating is rubbing the frenulum inside my foreskin"

"My foreskin has as much sensation as the glans. The inner foreskin has so many nerves that retracting it and massaging it can trigger orgasm. Once I conducted an experiment by wearing my foreskin back for over a year to determine if the circumcised penis glans lost its sensitivity. It does! The exposure of the glans to air and the friction of cloth is a horrible numbing .... Once I concluded the experiment and returned my foreskin to its proper place, the intensity of my glans returned two fold, as did my preseminal volume. I am radically against circumcision and believe it should be made illegal"

"[The Frenulum] twinges more when erect but is very pleasurable and often stretched more when approaching orgasm to enhance the pleasure"

"Any sex play with the foreskin, especially the inside is extremely arousing and pleasurable. A special pleasure is having the inside of the foreskin stimulated with the tongue while the glans is covered"

"The best feeling I get during mastrubation is when the foreskin is brought back on the glans on the upward movement and backward on the downward movement. With precum running between the foreskin and the glans I can go on for hours"

"I can only really masturbate properly when the foreskin is not retracted"

"I love my foreskin. I am glad I have it. I love its total package, protection, appearance flaccid and erect, its smell, its form, its function"

"Everything works together. It would be hard to imagine it without either glans [or] foreskin. It seems to be a system with each taking a predominant role at different times but all together at the end"

"when erect, it is really pleasurable to have the frenulum stretched and the sensation when the area is touched is amazing"

"always enjoyed having the tip of my foreskin rubbed as the inner skin was really sensitive"

Then there was the famous case of “Dr John Money and the Boy who had no penis”. David Reimer was born a boy but, “they burned his dick off, there was a malfunction with the equipment during the circumcision and instead of them just burning off the foreskin they burnt off the whole penis, so it was just like a black bit of string “ David became Brenda, but he never really adapted to life as a girl and he committed suicide at the age of 38.

Some people suggest that “the brutality of the early circumcision could be one of many factors affecting men who grow up and eventually give this violence back to society. “ A bit far fetched you say, maybe.

But “circumcision of non-Jews started in the USA around 100 years ago as a technique to stop young boys from masturbating by reducing our ability to feel”

the average circumcision removes over half the genital tissue and many specialized nerve endings, thereby substantially curtails sexual sensitivity.”

The British Medical Society, Canadian Pediatric Society, and even the American Academies of Pediatrics have stated that there is no justification for routine circumcision.

“the most sensitive part of the penis, the frenulum of the foreskin, is removed in most infant circumcisions. The glans becomes artificially keratinized (dry, hardened, discolored, and wrinkled) as a result of permanent exposure, and thus significantly less sensitive. So circumcision further reduces erogenous sensitivity in the penis by reducing skin mobility and thus the ability to use the foreskin to massage the glans. “

Twenty-five years after this event I was at uni and we were in a class talking about female genital mutilation and I like the rest of the class were horrified by this practice. After the class I was talking to a girl about this practice and she scoffed when I compared male circumcision to female circumcision .

“How can you compare male circumcision with female genital mutilation, I mean like you only get a tiny bit of skin taken off, for girls they hack off great chunks of flesh like the clitoris, they are not even close!”

“Ah……but……..”

“Yeah, nah you need to re think that one boy, its nothing like what women go through, we have it so fuckin hard man, you wouldn’t understand you’re a man!” With that she stormed off.

We lived in Grosse Point an upmarket suburb of the city. It was a tiny alcove of wealth amidst the pollution and poverty of the city. Eminem came from Detroit as did several million other people, he was a Libran like me brought up by a single mum, but he was born into poverty while I was born into moderate wealth. The movie Eight Mile with Kim Basinger reminded me of seedy alternate reality version of my mum. I could kind of relate in a vague absurd way. My mum was always a very attractive woman, and many people were drawn to her, though she was much more sophisticated than Marshall’s mum and never got into drugs so maybe its not such a great comparison after all.

My dad had moved to the USA to pursue training as a Surgeon, but my parents were both Aussies. They divorced when I was three years old and when they separated I went back to Australia with mum, while my brother stayed with dad in the USA. We moved around a lot. I spent most of the time with my mother, but every couple of years I might spend six months with dad. The details are all hazy, I can remember bits and pieces and I have seen photos but how do I know it was real. There is this lingering sense of doubt that I am missing something.

My parents were like opposites on the one hand there was my mother who was gregarious, spontaneous and uninhibited, then there was my dad who was pathogically shy and conservative, but sensitive, caring, and expressive once he opened up.

My mother Jemima was one of the wonders of my life she was affectionate, responsive, intelligent, fun and passionate about life. People used to say she was like Goldie Hawn, all fluffy and bright. As a child I can recall spending hours in her lap listening to her chatting with friends, the smell of coffee and a sense of security.

I learnt a lot from my mother, empathy, communication, writing and an ability to see things from a woman’s perspective. As I grew up I could see how a single woman was disadvantaged in society, I saw the world through her eyes.

She was like wonder women always there to provide for me but like superman she had one weakness. When faced with kryptonite superman loses his power and when faced with a sexual opportunity my mother lost hers. You see dear old mum, god bless her, was a veritable nymphomaniac, and thus prostitution or as she liked to call it massage, seemed like a great career choice. But we’ll get to that later. I used to think that she was free of addiction but this was her crutch or should I say velvet handshake.

Her affection was sometimes overwhelming, but for me as a young child it was also reassuring. When I was about 8 years old we lived in an isolated house in the country with no phone or car. The house had been built by my grandfather and my dad had given the house to mum as a settlement from their divorce

Mum was lonely and so she turned to me for emotional support. On an emotional level we had a deep and loving bond. I recalled that my mother would kiss me on the lips, and I would stick my tongue in her mouth. I am sure that from my mothers perspective there was no sexual aspect to it, but from my perspective there was an infantile sensuality. It was just a game but I enjoyed it, in a sensual way, and I felt incredibly guilty because I did. I loved my mum, she was the centre of my universe.

But sometimes I wondered if this had really happened maybe I had imagined it, a symptom of my underlying oedipal complex, the events were distant and fuzzy like someone had implanted the memories in my brain. The movie ‘Bad Boy Bubby’ comes to mind, where bubby was fucked by his demented mother. Nothing even remotely similar occurred to me, my memories were of a seductive subtle sexual interaction that was very pleasurable. What sort of sicko wants to fuck their mum, seriously fucked up shit man. But I also knew it was wrong, like I knew stealing from the shop was wrong, and saying “fuck and cunt”, and that’s a poor analogy……….

I had mostly very happy memories of these times. I slept in my mother’s bed, but when friends would come over I would always pretend that I slept in the next room. It was cosy and secure sleeping with her but I felt embarrassed that I still slept with my mother at the age of 8. It was a guilty secret, because I knew it was something a baby would do not a growing boy. But when a new partner arrived I was sent to my room.

The times that Mum spent with me were wonderful, she gave me her full attention and I felt very special. I felt the depth of my mother’s love and it made me feel happy. But then she would be gone, life a butterfly, beautiful and a delight to behold, but one that moves from flower to flower spreading its joy. The joy and love she brought radiated throughout my life and her absence left a void.

When I was about 8 years old I remember watching a program on TV. There was this young bloke who was being arrested for being gay, he kept denying that he was, it was an American movie made in the seventies, I don’t know what the name was but I clearly remember this scene. I asked my mother what it meant to be gay, she told me but I didn’t really understand.

When I was ten I travelled from Sydney to Wisconsin by myself to meet up with my mother who had married an American, Art. I felt very independent, flying across the globe alone, it was quite an adventure.

While I was growing up mum would bring home new boyfriends on a regular basis. She met guys on the bus, at the gym, in the street and would bring them home, in the process introducing them to me. She had a magnetic attraction that men seemed to respond to. It was amazing, but like the pied piper she also attracted a steady stream of rats.

There was Chyam the Jewish dude she met on the bus and brought home for few days, Broderick the fat American balloonist who she met at the shopping centre, Lee the recent Croatian immigrant she met at the gym, Tom the artist, Cedric the teacher, Bill the boat builder, Bob the rugby league player, and a former Labour Party man who later became head of the ABC, Tim Jack the Cabinetmaker, Stevo the Plumber, Ignatius the psychiatrist. She would point him out to me on TV and say “Yeah I met him at a party and dated him for a few months”. These were some of the men I could remember, some of the men who I had to compete with for my mother’s love.

At night I would often lie awake and listen to my mother’s moans, while some bloke fucked her. And when I say moans I mean blood curdling screams that reverberated through the house as though some heinous crime were taking place. I remember putting my fingers in my ears to blot out the sound, and when this didn’t work using my walkman to drown out the sounds of their sexual congress. As child I didn’t know what these sounds were it scared me and wanted it to stop. But as an adult I realised that mum was just a real bloody go-er and she had every right to enjoy and full and active sex life.

As I got older I would sometimes be called upon to act as a gatekeeper, telling men who came calling that mum did not want to see them any longer. I can particularly recall the reaction of Chyam, he came to the door and mum was in the bedroom. Mum had given me a script and told me what to say when he came.

“Mum doest want to see you anymore”

“But why, if I could just speak to her, what happened we had such a nice time, is she home, please let me speak with her.” He pleaded with me, but mum had been clear kick him out.

She seemed to revel in her sexuality and the power it gave her. Not that she was a megalomaniac or anything its just that she had this god given gift to seduce.

Then there were the marriages. When she met my dad she was engaged to be married to a psychiatrist but married dad instead. Then came a procession of boyfriends and then she married Art, who was the CEO of multinational organisation. She divorced him, then came Julian who she dated for several years, followed by a young Italian bloke at least 20 years her junior, and Ian the landscaper who was a client of her sisters, who she married and then divorced.

“Hey Dave do you want to come sailing today, I met this man who teaches sailing and I thought you might like to come along and learn.”

“Wow that sounds great mum, I’d love to come.”

I was looking forward to a great day of sailing.

So we travelled from our apartment in St Lucia to Redcliffe. The guy in question was in his late fifties an old sea dog, grey hair and full beard and he owned a small yacht.

We sailed out into the bay and did some manoeuvres with me at the helm. After about 30 minutes the old guy threw the anchor overboard and brought the yacht to a standstill.

“Why don’t you try the dingy Dave, you can have a bit of a paddle ‘round.” The old seadog said.

“Yeah, I’ll give that a go”, but in my mind I imagined what he really meant, “A vast me hearty’s, arrrgh, seems we might need to do a bit da old, plank walkin, aye! Shiver me timbers, if it aint a land lubber, tryin to paddle a dinghy, have a go you young scally wag, be off wit ya, me and this wench ave got some bidness to see to, now be gone wid ya!” Mind you he didn’t really say that, but I could imagine him saying it, it would not have seemed out of place.

So I grabbed the oars, hopped into the dingy and started paddling around.

Looking over toward the boat I could see my mother and the old sailor go into the cabin. I heard Jemima offer to give the sailor a massage. However, the sounds emanating from the cabin made it quite obvious that this was much more than a massage. As I paddled around in the dingy I felt sickened and outraged. But it was rather funny here is my mum taking me on an outing and she just gets totally side tracked, it was absurd really.

I know she never meant any harm by her actions, she just couldn’t help herself.

I closed my eyes, put my head in my hands and thought to myself, it was all just a ruse for her to have sex, why the hell did she bring me, why is she like this. The trip home in the car was awkward, “did you have a nice time?”,

What could I say, “Oh it was great mum, thanks for that.”

But later I realised that she had not planned it that way she was just a very spontaneous person.

She had a one night stand with a bloke from the pub and ended up getting pregnant to him. He did not want to have anything to do with the baby, so my step brother would have no father at all.

Mum had been a sannyasin, a follow of Bhagwan Shree Rhashneesh or Osho as he was known later in life. The ‘orange people’ were renowned for their very open attitudes to sex. Her Sannyasin name was Aanandi.

She kept a picture of Osho on her wall and when my friends would visit they would invariably ask who the old guy was. My standard answer was that he was a relative, I felt embarrassed by my mother’s affiliations. At other times he was uncle Rishi who had died while climbing everest, and yet at still other times he was a philosopher/writer/artist, etc.

My dad was in general practice which meant that work took up a lot of his time and energy. Dad had become a doctor late in life. He had left school at 15 to work on the family dairy farm but at 30 he decided he wanted to become a doctor, so he did.

He took me and my brother on camping trips on the holidays and went to great efforts to ensure James and I had a great time. He bought us all the things we needed in life and never said a harsh word to us. But there was an emotional distance, which was rarely bridged.

I lived with Dad while he worked for the Saudi Airforce in Khamis Mushayt for 2 years. Khamis is about 3 hours from the Red Sea in the south west of Saudi Arabia. It is in the mountains of the Asir province. This is the same town that 3 of the September 11th hijackers came from. Walid Al-Shehri, Wail Al-Shehri and Saeed Alghamdi came from Khamis, while Ahmed Alnami was from Abha a nearby town that held the local airport. We would pass through the airport at Abha on our way to and from the Kingdom.

When I saw the newspaper articles with the hijackers I thought I recognised one of them. I put his name into google and sure enough it was him. Walid Al-Shehri had come to our school to improve his english. I can remember him telling me that he wanted to be a teacher when he finished school. He was a friendly but quiet guy who liked playing computer games and reading science fiction. He never spoke about Islam, he just seemed like an ordinary kid. I can remember him reading the L Ron Hubbard book, “Battlefield Earth” he raved about it.

The Asir region is home to numerous radical clerics who have been blamed for inflaming the passions of many aspiring terrorists. Osama Bin Laden also came from Asir his father built the great highway 15 linking the south with Jeddah and Mecca. It is also one of the most notorious highways in the Kingdom, and one which we regularly traversed on our way to the glorious Red Sea.

Road rules are not of great significance to the average Saudi. When cars would pull up at the traffic lights on a 2 lane road, four or sometimes five vehicles would come along side each other on the front of the grid. Beeping their horns and revving their engines ready for the chequered flag, I mean lights to change.

Saudi Arabia has one of the world's highest rates of traffic accidents, according to its transport ministry. Road deaths have exceeded 35,000 in the past ten years, with more than 200,000 people injured.

We lived in a compound for foreigners surrounded by a high wall. It was 1984 and there was no danger, Arabs loved westerners, but were honest in their hatred of the Israelis. I can recall one Saudi telling me how Hitler was his hero because he had killed so many of the filthy Jews. “Hitler , quais”, quais is Arabic for good.

Regular trips to the local souk or market to buy pirate copies of albums, Sony Walkmans, gold and Nike shoes. We had a favourite place to eat that sold “shwarmas”, or kebabs as they call them here. In Saudi they would get a long bread roll, remove the filling by hand and insert beef, lettuce, tomato, tabouli, hommous, tahini and chili sauce. It was delicious. We had a favourite stall that was operated by a Yemeni dude and we would always buy our shwarmas from him. He had dark skin, a moustache and a glistening gold tooth revealed by his broad grin. Unlike the Saudis he dressed in western style attire, ususally a long sleave shirt and slacks.

The regular evening prayer call brought the shopping to a halt. Shoppers scurried to the mosques, as store owners slowly closed their shops while a Muttawa did his rounds. The Muttawa a religious enforcer would walk around the souk with a large cane followed by 2 religious police. The Muttawa was usually a mature man with long grey beard and plain white goutra draped over his head.

If a merchant was slow to close shop they might get some harsh words and if they continued to delay might be given a few quick strokes of the cane. The religious police were distinguished from the regular cops by the green trim on their uniforms, while regular cops had blue trim on their khaki uniforms.

Saudi Arabia is ruled by Sharia law, that is all there laws are based on Islamic teachings from the Koran. Therefore, they need special police to ensure that religious laws are enforced.

The weekend is Thursday and Friday. They use the Islamic calender. The year was 1406 (1984), and in some ways it felt like I had travelled back in time.

Not everyone would answer the call to prayer, many merchants preferred to have a cup of tea or a nap in the back of the shop. This was tolerated so long as they ceased all trading.

On Fridays they would execute criminals in the car park of the souk and the executions would be announced on TV news in the week leading up to the big day. As a young teenager with a passion for horror movies, “a real public execution” was fascinating. One Friday we were in the Souk, a crowd of people had gathered in a large circle.

There were only men present and they chatted quietly while waiting for the events to unfold. It was kind of like being at a football match, but without the beer, football, meat pies, drunken fools, Mexican waves or airhorns. On the other side of the circle I saw a barefoot blindfolded man with his arms tied behind his back being lead into the centre of the circle by two policemen. Following this trio was a tall man dressed in traditional Bedouin attire, a dagger on his belt and a long curved sword in his hands. A quiet expectancy came over the audience, as one of the policeman began to read aloud from a document held in his hands, meanwhile the condemned man fidgeted and shifted his weight back and forth like a child who needed to do a piss.

Once the policeman has finished reading the condemned man was pushed to the ground, so that he fell to his knees.

I watched in awe as the condemned man sat legs curled under him and head bowed as though in solemn pray and then the swordsman let his blade fly. The blade struck the back of the prisoners neck but only went part way through. As the blade struck there was an audible grunt from the man with his head hanging off. So the poor bastard his squatting there with this head hanging by a thread and so our ham-fisted executioner needed to have a second hack to take the head off. This time there was no mistake, the crowded groaned and murmured in appreciation, as the blade struck the hapless victim’s flesh and sending bright blood spurting forth, as his body fell forward to the ground, stirring up a cloud of dust and leaving a strange gap where his head used to be.


Marooned in the sands of Saudi we tried to maintain our cultural links. It was 1986 Hip-hop and rap culture was just starting to emerge in the West and thankfully our friends in the East were pirating all the newest music and flogging it off in the middle east. In the Souk we were able to buy a wide range of pirated cassettes with all the latest music. I would often come home with 10 or 15 tapes they were very cheap. I had a copy of Grand Master Flash’s the message and enjoyed the action of Electric Boogaloo.

We practised on cardboard, wore bandanas, high top nikes, fingerless gloves and tried to emulate the new fashions. We also decided that to be complete we needed to do graffiti. So we would find walls on our compound to festoon with our tags.

On one occasion we ventured into the Souk to leave our mark. I can recall feeling rather wild going down dark alleys to paint our tags. On one wall I sprayed the outline of a Star of David, and giggled at what the Saudis would think, and excited by the danger that I was placing my self in.

On weekends Tracey and I would kiss and cuddle. She was from Scotland and I met her at the American School I was attending, she lived on a compound near me. It was built to provide an education for the children of the American contractors who were supplying the Saudi Air force with the latest military hardware, F-15s and all the associated equipment. Most of the kids were American but there were also a few kids from Finland, Sweden, Canada, Pakistan, England, Australia, and Norway.

The school had about three hundred students and was located on an American compound. A big yellow American style school bus picked us up every day and took us to our homes at the various western compounds.

Tracey and I would often sit near each other on the bus ride home.

“What sort of music are you into?”

“Oh you know I like the Eurythmics, Midnight Oil, Madness a few others, oh yeah I’m also into Grand Master Flash, he’s awesome.”

“Ok, yeh well I like the Eurythmics too, don’t mind Madness, but the other two I haven’t heard before”

“Oh well, I have the tape I could play it for you”

“Cool you should come over some time”

“Yeah that would be fun”

“What are you doing this weekend Dave, you should come over to our compound we’re having a sleep over, they’ll be Rick , Sven, Justine, Vanessa, Irena as well, I think that’s everyone.”, Tracey said.

“Yeah sounds great, I look forward to it”

We kissed, wrapping our tongues together, I felt my pants tighten as my cock began to grow. I felt excited but unsure, I didn’t want to hug her too tightly or she might feel my cock, I was embarrassed.

We broke up, I was alienated amongst the other kids, the novelty of being the new kid from Australia soon wore off and I was the subject of derision for being smarter and often ostracised by the dominant kids at school.

“Dad, I’m not happy here I want to go back to Australia…”

“Here take there son this will help it wont be long now..”

“What are these Dad?”

“Oh they’ll just help you to relax that’s all, they are called valium.”

“Oh ok.”

I took some valium tabs and stayed in the toilets at Asir Academy, I bided my time. There was no where for me to go, they would see me. The library was closed during lunch time, I had no friends and so hiding in the toilet seemed like a solution. People would come in and go out and I would still be there just wishing the time would pass. I came to know that toilet quite well. Other kids must have seen me loitering in their but said nothing and thought what a fucking freak/fag.

While living in Saudi I was a voracious reader and loved horror stories. I was reading James Herbert’s the Rats and early on in the novel there is a gay scene involving an older man and young man. While reading this scene I found to my alarm that I was getting aroused, this was not supposed to happen I liked girls, I had a girlfriend, what the fuck. It freaked me out it was a fate worse than death. I tried to forget about it.

I had always felt pretty well adjusted until I came to this school. I had come from a catholic primary school in Lismore with about 400 pupils where, I was fairly popular and had good mates and sweet innocent little girlfriends. I was very happy, having just finished grade six, I was in the first few weeks of high school when we moved. In the weeks leading up to our departure I was very excited about going but it was a massive shock to my system arriving in Saudi Arabia.

Coming from rural northern NSW to Saudi Arabia was a huge culture shock.

I began to question what was real, to notice how completely different this place was to the world I had known.

It was like another universe, the sea of white thobes, tipped by red and white goutras encircled by the black egals. The men all dressed in long white robes called thobes, and the vast majority wore the traditional head dress red and white checked goutras, sometimes with the egal or without. They might wrap it around their heads covering their eyes, or carefully fold it so that it creates a sculpted peak, wrap it tightly around their heads or just casually drape it around their shoulders. It is a very versatile piece of attire.

The Saudi women where visible but anonymous clad in the all concealing black abayas, covered head to toe except for thin slits for their eyes, which were adorned with dark mascara creating an strangely alluring presence.

Young men walk around holding hands, it seems strange to western eyes but completely natural to the Saudis. The Saudis would stare at me, the young bright eyed boy, it felt to me like a sexual stare. I found it very disconcerting.

“All the Saudis are fags man, havnt you seen the way they always walk around holding hands n shit, there fuckin gay as man, ….”

“Yeah, your right, they are the fuckers…..”

“there is no word for "homosexual" in their culture in the modern Western sense.”

“Sex before marriage is not just a sin -- but a criminal offence. It is punishable by a severe beating at best, and an execution at worst.”

Dad and I went to a restaurant for dinner in the Souk. There was this Filipino bloke there who was very camp. As we were leaving he asked my dad if I was a boy or a girl, the Filipino insisted that I was a girl. This one little incident was very disturbing, it might seem like nothing but it was like an assault. To have my identity questioned so aggressively, I thought maybe he was right, maybe I am. Dad and I drove home in silence.

I can recall watching Midnight Express and there is a gay scene in this movie. I was watching it with my dad in his apartment in Saudi and the scene where the lead character and his mate get it on. Once again to my dismay I found myself getting turned on. It was very uncomfortable especially with my dad there. At the time I wished he would fast forward it, but he didn’t.

As I grew and developed I excelled in most areas of life but I felt a great deal of confusion in regard to my sexuality and gender. I mean I knew I was a boy but I felt that I didn’t have the raw machismo that I wanted to display.

“One parent dominating tends to leave the child with a stereotyped and biased perspective of the values of the minority parent, and ultimately a lack of appreciation for that part of itself.

The less the child sees a parent the easier it is to form a negative and caricatured stereotype of the unseen parent that leads to the child feeling negative about that half of her or himself. “

Warren Farrel

This was further exacerbated that my mum would regularly bitch about my dad, telling me how selfish, irresponsible, emotionally withdrawn and incompetent he was as a man. This undermined my image of my father because at this stage in my life I still absolutely idolised my mother in every way. This would end up being very damaging for my own identity as a man.

After two years in Saudi I was desperate to go home and so I went back to Brisbane to live with mum. I would visit my father in Saudi Arabia a couple of times a year. Dad was very generous with his money and gave me an American Express card when I was 14 years old. This earned me the nickname “American Express” at school.

“Mum I don’t want to go to school today”

“Lets go to Dreamworld”

Mum took me to Dreamworld and skipped school for the day.

My first successful ejaculation occurred when I was about 14 looking at a penthouse magazine with softcore images of chicks in lingerie posing together with subtle lesbian undertones, I loved it. I knew that wanking was stroking your penis, but I didn’t realise that if you kept on doing it for a longer period it would lead to orgasm. I would often look at penthouse magazines for hours leering at the exposed bums, bussoms and pussy, but it was after much experimentation that I made the connection between horny pictures, hard cock, rubbing of said cock and blowing my stack. It was a great new trick and further proof that I wasn’t a fucking poofta. It was 1985, Heuey Lewis and The News, Back to the Future and The Cure were big.

However, at the same time experimented with wearing my mum’ clothes. I would put on a bra, panties, stockings and a dress I found it to be very exciting but it was my secret. The thought of anyone finding out terrified me, but the thrill of slipping on those nylons electrified me.

In 1986 I had my first orgasm with a woman. She was a prostitute I was 15. When ever I visited my father in Saudi Arabia I would stop over in Singapore. The Sheraton Century Park was my first choice, the staff knew me by name and it was a great place to relax.

On one of these stop overs I had the idea of getting a whore. My dad had only given me a few hundred dollars to travel with, and I didn’t want to use the plastic for fear it might be traced so I was conscious of my budget. I scanned through the local yellow pages leering at the images of scantily clad women, rubbing my dick just to make sure I was keen, and on que it hardened so I rang the number.

I booked a girl and waited. I was very nervous and wanted to make sure I was ready for her so I stripped off and wrapped a towel around my waist. Furthermore, I continued stroking my cock to ensure that I remained hard for her. This was good in theory but did not hold up in practice.

There was a knock at the door and straight away I felt my dick soften, I was nervous, would I be up to it.

I didn’t really know what I had purchased for my money, I kissed her lightly on the cheek as if testing the water. After a few awkward moments I lay down on the bed and she sat down beside me.

Well she didn’t speak much English but she seemed to know how to wank and she did this for a while. I was so nervous that I couldn’t come. She kept wanking and wanking and wanking, but god bless my soul I couldn’t blow. I felt exposed and wondered what I should do. She asked me if I was in the army, it bolstered my ego, I could pretend I was a man.

After a few minutes of frantic tugging I lent a hand to finalise the process, allowing a stream of clear fluid to be released. I knew I was attracted to women and this proved it, it settled my sense of confusion temporarily.

On this same trip I was busted for trying to smuggle a Penthouse magazine into Saudi Arabia, concealed in the cover of my tennis racquet. I landed in Riyadh It was Penthouse that had originally taken my virginity, well my conscious (as opposed to wet dream) ejaculation experience. The Saudi customs officer took me into a back room, for questioning. Just me and a guard he tried to push me around and touched my balls through my pants, I had to push him away from me.

“Why does young boy like you have this?”

“I like to read it” , I was scared but certain of my importance.

The Saudi guard seemed shocked by my response. He began writing I didn’t know what it said. I still have that bit of paper and I don’t know what it says.

I was worried that I would miss my connecting flight. But it ended quickly and they fined me 50 Riyals ($20), and gave me a slip of paper that outlined the charge against me. It was my first real run in with the law.

Riyadh airport is modelled on Bedouin tent, with massive arch ways and huge open areas. Inside is a mass of marble and granite, but very few shops, just basic food stalls and newsagents and that’s about it.

While waiting for my flight I wandered around listening to my walkman and reading a collection of short stories, Skelleton Crew by Stephen King. The dulcet tones of the Midnight Oil filled my ears with the song US Forces blaring in my ears as I was reading a story called, The Raft and just as a bloke was being sucked down through a hole in a wooden raft, I see a shadow coming over me and look up to see a tall lean rather regal looking Saudi man approach me. He had a thick dark beard, angular features and wore the typical white thobe, and goutra, as well as a black cloak with gold trim cascading over his shoulders; these were often worn by the wealthier Saudis. I could see that he was not your average Saudi. Saudis would often approach westerns to practice their English or just to hear about your home.

“Fi Arabi?” he asked me

I shrugged and said, “La shwai arabi”

“Ah OK, are you American?” This was a standard question, all westerners were first and foremost Americans, if I said yes they were excited if I said no they were obviously disappointed. He spoke slowly, but clearly with a slight American accent to his English.

I was often confused by this question, I only had a US passport but in reality I had always considered myself an Aussie. But for simplicity I would often agree that yes I was a yank.

“Yes.”

“Very good, my name is Osama” reaching out his long arm he gave me a plain white card with his name printed in black “Osama Bin Laden” with a phone number and on the other side was Arabic script, presumably the same.

“What is your name?”

“Ah Dave, Dave Hawkins”

“Maybe you can help me with some questions?”

“Yeah sure”

“Come have a seat,” he gestured for me to sit down next to him.

“So why are you in the Kingdom?”

I told him about my dad and that I was on holidays. He seemed interested and nodded his head at the appropriate times.

“Dad lives in Khamis Mushayt”

“Does he, in the Asir, my home province, you know my family is from the Asir”

“Oh is that right”

“So what do you do Osama?”

“Well my boy that indeed is a very personal question, but because you have been so open with me I will be also with you, my purpose in life is to defend Islam and to stand up for oppressed Islamic people throughout the world, right now I am on my way to Afghanistan to do some important work for the Mujahadeen, you know what this is?”

“Yes, Islamic fighters, you fight against the Soviets?”

“Yes we will drive them from Afghanistan, inshallah.”

“Are you flying on a commercial flight?”

“Oh no my boy we will go in a special way that I cannot discuss with you, I am just here now waiting on my friend who will be joining me on this trip to Afghanistan.”

“Are you a Christian Dave?”

“I, guess so, not in a formal sense it was something I inherited, I am interested in other religions. “

“Good, good curiosity is an important trait, something that my parents noticed in me from an early age, that and my love for planes. As a child I insisted on getting models of all the airlines currently in use 747, 767, Airbus, 707 etc. I would build them from kits and then blow them up by putting gunpowder wrapped in masking tape, with a crude fuse……my first experience with explosives, at other times I would tie fishing line to a wing of the plane and ignite it with a lighter and then swing it round my head as the flames consumed the fuselage, it was great fun, but I digress.”

“Tell me Dave, which of the Star Wars movie was the best?”

“Well Episode IV was great you know being introduced to the idea, but Luke didn’t have any Jedi powers yet so, you know Empire would have to be my favourite, I like parts of Return of the Jedi, pretty much everything except the Ewoks, they were really, lame I don’t know what George was thinking, if there had been no Ewoks, Jedi would have been my favourite, so I will have to say the Empire Strikes back”

“You know I would have to agree with you, I never liked the Ewoks, they seemed, well absurd you know, anyway I agree with you Dave good choice. It amazes me that an American can produce such brilliant films but make such foolish political decisions……..but anyway this is not the time to discuss politics. I hope you enjoy your stay in the Kingdom, and while you are here do yourself a favour and learn about the great prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him, he will lead you into the light, much like Luke was lead by Obi wan.”

“So if Mohammed is like Obi wan are you saying that Islam is kind of like the light side of the force and Christianity is the dark side?”

“Not quite my boy, you know we Muslims acknowledge Jesus as a prophet, not the son of god but a prophet none the less, but there are problems in the west, wicked under currents that threaten to destroy, anyway, it has been nice talking to you, give me a call next time you come to the Kingdom, I will show you around”. I hoped this was not a pick up line, I knew what Saudis were like, they liked a bit of boy on the side.

“We love death. The US loves life. That is the big difference between us.”

Osama Bin Laden

We continued to chat for a while until, “It is time I must be going, have a pleasant journey, inshallah Masallama

Years later as I watched the twin towers collapse, my heart skipped a beat as I realised that I had met and been chatted up by Osama and socialised with one of the hijackers while living in Saudi. Up close and personal with the western world’s favourite villains, star wars fan and possible faggot.

Back in Brisbane Mum enrolled me at a “good school” as students somewhat sarcastically described it. It was a poor Catholic high school with limited resources but a lovely sense of community. It only had about 500 pupils so everyone knew each other, however the all male environment did not prepare me for the real world. The only times I interacted with girls my age was at school dances trying to get lucky. Now you might say, surely that would have been an brilliant preparation for a young man before he embarks on a tour of Brisbane nightspots in the late 1980’s.

The dances would often be at local sporting clubs and we would usually buy some “goon”, a cask of fruity lexia and skull it. Those dark moments in the car park lips locked together in a passionate wrestling match, as our ripening bodies writhed in a desperate dance of ecstasy. I can recall reaching under her skirt to caress her young vagina, clumsily fondling with her clitoris with one hand, desperately groping her breast with the other while sucking the life out of her.

I pulled my hand out to change positions and smelt the sweet scent of her pussy on my fingers, time seemed to melt away, my cock rubbed against her nubile body. I could hear the music pulsating and the Angels singing “No way Get Fucked fuck off…..Am I ever goin to see your face again “

The swapping of phone numbers, no pens but a desperate need to recall, parents arriving a parting kiss, and then she was gone. My only interactions with girls during these years were confined to such desperate sexually charged encounters. Before calling one of the girls I would sit down at my desk and write out a list of things that we could talk about, I dreaded that sickening silence that might undermine my romantic advances. It worked well and as we chatted I would cross an item of the list, providing a smooth transition between scenes.

At school I was achieving excellent results topping my year in English, Geography, and History. I was selected for the Queensland School boy Weightlifting team and I competed at the Nationals in Adelaide

We had a personal development class in which sexuality was briefly discussed.

“Fuckin fagots suck man, they should all be shot, that’s what my dad reckons, if I was gay I reckon I’d kill myself, just jump off a building or something.” Nathan was a good mate from school, very intelligent but like most of us incredibly homophobic. At this time I also thought that it would be better to be dead than gay.

In 1987 two gay men were arrested in Brisbane for their choice of lifestyle. In my mind this further confirmed the fact that such behavior was unacceptable.

“All men are afraid of being queer.”

Charles Bukowski

There was no one that I felt I could share my confusion with. But I hated myself for having these feelings, that society had told me were so disgusting. Maybe I could just repress them, pretend it wasn’t happening, so I did.

I looked up bi-sexual in the dictionary and thought maybe that was the answer, it gave me some relief. I remember leafing through the library, conscious of the fact that I didn’t want anyone to see what I was looking up.

Although mum was a qualified teacher she earned her living as a massuese. She hated trying to control a room full of boisterous teenagers, but loved sensual activities.

As a single mother looking after a toddler and a teenager it was an easy solution to her money problems. From what she told me it seemed that she was doing therapeutic massage and she wanted to practice on me before she put her add in. For the last two years of high school mum worked form home doing massage during the day while I went to school. I had no idea that there might be more to her business than massage.

At the end of year 12 I got a TE score of 945 which I was a bit disappointed with. Mum had been instrumental in assisting me with essays and allowing me to skip school to do assignments. I topped my year in English, History and Geography, excelled in Biology, enjoyed Art but I struggled in Maths.

“Hey mum, could you read through this essay for me.”

“Sure, lets have a look at it”

After reading through the text she would invariably suggest numerous changes to improve the flow of the writing. She was a great tutor.

I wanted to study law but this was not quite high enough so I enrolled in BA at UQ. I dropped out after six months disillusioned and keen to rebel. Up to this point in my life I had always done the right thing, well I was sick of it and dropping out of uni was my first act of rebellion.

While I was in high school I had been unaware of the real nature of my mother’s massage business. However, after finishing school, moving out of home and dropping out of uni I moved back in with dear old mum at her new house on the Gold Coast. It was at this time that she had her little chat with me.

It was at this time that I discovered pot and mum told me about the true nature of her business, (January 1992)

“You do know what I do, don’t you?”, she asked tilting her head to one side and raising her eyebrows.

“Yeh you do massage, right?”, I tilted my head to one side.

“Yes well I do a little bit more than that, I give relief to my clients”, emphasizing the word relief.

“Oh, I bet you do I mean you are a great masseuse” I had experienced the power of my mothers healing touch, although at times I had felt uncomfortable being touched by her.

“Well, Dave I masturbate the clients as well as massage them, that’s what relief means in the massage industry”, she said in a matter of fact manner.

“Is that right, well um ah jeez…………………..”, my jaw gaped open and I inhaled deeply.

“And Auntie Lucy, Auntie Cheryl and Auntie Debbie do it as well”

“You are fucking kidding me!”, my eyes widened and I gasped.

“No you see I told them all how much money was to be made in this business and that’s why they moved to the Gold Coast to do what I am doing. “

At the time I didn’t complain, mum was generous with her profits, I lived at her house without paying board and regularly borrowed money on top of this. I used the term borrowed very loosely as I never attempted or intended to repay any of the money.

Most of the time it was just a bit of “rubbin and tuggin” or “hand relief” , but sometimes I would hear deep moaning sounds coming from the therapy room and find used condoms in the toilet. Mum never mentioned anything about the additional services, but it was obvious to me. Ah well cows gotta be milked so really she was performing an essential social service.

Auntie Cheryl had been rather wealthy in the past and still retained a regal demeanour. However, beneath her serene exterior she had a rather judgemental personality. Amongst certain family members she was known as “Feral Cheryl”, for her tendency to make highly insensitive personal remarks.

When introduced to a pregnant relative she said

“I cant understand how anyone can let themselves get into such deplorable shape, she should be ashamed, I mean to go out like that, its very simple just diet and exercise, she must be lazy and a gluton how disgraceful. “ As she spoke she curled her lip as the words blasted forth from her mouth like a hydrochloric Niagara Falls.

“She’s actually pregnant Aunty Cheryl.”

“Oh well, but anyway she must have been overweight to start with and what sort of example is that for her children, I ask you outrageous.”

In all her wisdom she decided to share her insights with the target of her remarks, and in a grating high pitched voice she said, “You don’t look pregnant darling you just look fat!”. You can imagine how the poor girl responded, it was bloody terrible.

Aunty Cheryl had been unable to have children of her own, but she adopted two, perhaps her remarks were merely a manifestation of her jealously, the fact they she could not get pregnant. This thought helped ease my enmity towards her.

To maintain her fa├žade she applied thick layers of makeup, and had received her fair share of cosmetic surgery creating the stretched look. Otherwise she was in excellent shape for her age. She came to the Gold Coast destitute but she was able to rub and tug herself into home ownership.

At 65 years of age she was still able to draw a loyal clientele. However, she was busted by an undercover cop who made her perform the full procedure. However, this did not stop her from returning to her chosen profession. She was also studying law part time and graduated just recently.

But it wasn’t only the sisters who got into the act, you see their husbands got jealous and wanted to even the odds so they placed advertisements of their own. However, rather than getting young lovelies to massage, the disappointed husbands only received calls from eager gay men.

Aunt Lucy had a client called Ian who was a regular of hers. One day he rang to make an appointment, but Lucy was booked up so Lucy rang my mum, to see if she could ‘service’ him.

Well mum took a shine to Ian and it seems as though the feeling was mutual because a short time later they were married. Ian was 22 years younger than her, and only 2 years older than me. I felt weird about that.

Mum gave up doing massage to become a fulltime house wife for Ian. I went to stay with them in their small house. I slept in the living room and every night would stick my fingers in my ears to muffle the sounds of mum and Ian fucking. Mum god bless her soul seemed to love sex because she screamed and moaned like a banshee. When I was a little boy and I heard mum fucking and it sounded to me as if she was in pain. In my child’s mind I could not imagine what might cause her to yell like that, I wondered whether she was calling for help. For a moment I considered checking on her to make sure she was ok, but luckily I didn’t, otherwise I might never have recovered from the shock.

Mum divorced Ian three years later because he could not give up his habit of visiting prostitutes. He didn’t seem to understand that mum was not his “ho” she was his partner. But they kept on seeing each other for years after the divorce.

After they split up she moved back to her house and resumed her profession. She lived in a small terrace house in Southport, on the top of a hill. The house was hidden by lush foliage, mum called it her secret garden. It was quite unique in the neighbourhood, all the other houses were typical seventies brick homes, with finely clipped lawns and small hedges. Sometimes I would answer the phone for her. This was before the law changes when prostitution was still illegal in Queensland, so there was a certain subterfuge involved in the provision of massage services, ie they were obviously also Al-Quada training camps, I mean no this was before Al- Quaeda it must be the PLO, no it was the IRA, no ETA , no the Taliban, argh no the arrrrrrrrr……………..Anyway back to my point, we had to speak in code when talking about the massage, for example;

“Good afternoon”

“Hi ah, have I got the right number, ah …………”

“You were ringing about the massage “

“ah yeh”

“Oh I’m not the masseuse I’m just answering the phone, but I can make an appointment for you. “

“Well how much is it?”

“It’s a full body sensual massage that is a fully inclusive service $70 for half an hour or $130 for the hour”

“Does that include relief?”

“It’s a full body massage and fully inclusive service, sir”

“But does it include relief”

“well it is a very relieving massage, if that you know wot I mean, nudge, nudge wink, wink, say no more, hey, hey, what you reckon old son, sounds good ay, yeah…..”

“Yeah that sounds alright, how about 1.30pm

“That’s fine, have you been before?”

“Yeah I think so, it’s the house on the hill in Sophie St isn’t it?”

“It certainly is, great I’ll let Jemima know your coming.”

Some callers would hang up as soon as they heard my voice, but a few would happily make appointments with me. I always felt a sense of achievement when I was able to set an appointment. My mum couldn’t answer the phone while she was working and so I would fill in. By answering the phone I was able to direct more business her way.

“I ‘m fucking your woman mate, she fucks good too hey”

I think the caller thought I was mums partner as opposed to her son.

Although I didn’t think about it at the time I looked backed later and decided that I had been pimping for mum. In my mind I had this image of myself dressed up like a seventies style New York Pimp, Fedora askew, fur coat, gold rings and necklaces glistening, as I booked another “John” for my mom. And I did profit from her business, she supported me totally, there was no doubt about her generosity and my complicity in her actions.

When I was home and mum was working I would have to be very quiet. The massage room was upstairs and I would keep myself to the ground floor. When clients would leave I would hide, but one day I was waiting down stairs and I made eye contact with one of the guys from the gym. He probably thought I was the next customer, or maybe he knew that he was messing around with my mum. Either way it made me feel rather awkward. I mean what would I say to him next time I saw him at the gym “Hey did you enjoy fucking my mum mate?”.

She paid the bills and I went to the gym, cleaned the house and looked after my younger brother. She bought all the food gave me cash when ever I needed it. She was very generous and generally supportive of my bodybuilding.

She was always trying to set me up with girls, “You are so attractive darling, when ever I introduce you to girls they always say who is that, I ‘m serious, you should have a girlfriend”

Which I was of happy about, I wanted a girlfriend, but the fact that she kept mentioning I didn’t, and how odd that was for a good looking guy like me, it just made me feel more incompetent.

This just made me feel like I was ab-normal. The fantasies that I used to stimulate myself while wanking would vary. Most of the time I would imagine girls in white panties bending over and exposing their tight asses, kissing and fondling their breasts. Occasionally I would imagine sex with men, cocks rubbing together, but when I had come I would always feel an incredible sense of guilt. Was this normal, I didn’t know, I couldn’t talk to anyone about it, much less act on it, I just hoped that when I got a girlfriend I would get over it. I could never discuss my sexual confusion with my mother.

“That Rita at the Video store she likes you, she asked about you, you know, why don’t you ask her out.”After much procrastination, I finally got up the courage to ask her. Heres how it happened.

Rita was the first girl I ever had intercourse with. Sure the prostitute in Singapore had tugged me to climax but it didn’t really count. I was desperate to rid myself of my virginity, to eject it from my body and become a real man not just a wanker. She worked at the local video store and I had seen her at the gym. She was stunning, absolutely beautiful, five foot 6 inches tall, slim, long blonde hair, clear eyes, succulent lips, and lightly tanned skin, I felt I had found my perfect match although I knew nothing about her.

“You go to the gym don’t you?” , she asked smiling and looking straight into my eyes.

“Yeah, I think I have seen you there”

“Are you into bodybuilding?”

“I’d like to compete one day if I can get good enough that is, but yeah I love it, what about you do you do weights?”

“I used to but I don’t want to bulk up, so I just do aerobics.”

She had a superb body, she was my dream women, petite slim, sexy and stunning. I would go to the video store nearly everyday hoping to see her.

Eventually I got up the courage to ask her out and we had a great time. A few drinks soon helped the words flow and a connection was created the attraction was simmering. By the end of the night our bodies were entwined, drawn together by pure lust. But I was very conscious of my lack of experience and though I wished we would have sex, I was fearful of not being up to the job. In the end my clumsy attempts at intercourse were not successful, we fell asleep in a firm embrace.

In the following week each time we slept together I had thrust my penis in and out in and out so many times but could not come. After such frantic bursts of lust I would be left in pain as sperm collected in my balls making them bulge. I remember it was such a sense of relief when I was finally able to orgasm with her.

One day the dam finally burst, and I was so relieved I knew that this was confirmation that I was not gay.

Sure I had, felt up, licked, sucked, rubbed and kissed but I had not fucked until I met her. That first orgasm with her was such a delight. As the endorphins filled my system I can remember declaring my love for her. I looked into her eyes deeply and said with passion,

“Babe I love you.”

She looked at me shocked and bit concerned, “But you don’t even know me how could you love me”

At the time I was just as stunned by her response as she was by my proclamation. I had never felt anything like this before, it felt so good I thought it must be love. Looking back I can see that it wasn’t love it was just lust and the afterglow of sex that prompted my words.

We were driving down the Gold Coast highway to her unit at Mermaid Beach and a Electric Dreams by Georgio Moroda came on the radio, I reached over and squeezed her hand and I knew,” I’d never find a better prize”, I knew that “we would always be together, together in electric dreams.” I was in lust with her but I thought it was love funny that.

At about this time I had experienced some gay fantasies and after reading an edition of Cleo that Rita had bought, in which there were numerous stories about girls engaged in bi-sexual adventures, and I thought that she might understand my confusion. But when I told her that I thought I might be bi-sexual she immediately burst in to tears and cried for about 15 minutes. This was the first and only person in the world I had ever revealed these thoughts to, and when she reacted as she did I was horrified and it only confirmed my worst fears that I was disgusting. It was OK for women to be bi but was totally unacceptable in a man.

Only the day before we had been discussing her bi-sexual fantasies and I thought that she would understand, but it seemed that as a man there was no room for experimentation its all or nothing. This is in stark contrast to the expression of female sexuality where bi-sexuality is tolerated and indeed quite trendy according to an article the Courier mail, about girls kissing each other in nightclubs. Although I have to admit the courier is certainly not the font of all wisdom this article proved thought provoking.

It wasn’t interested in falling in love with a bloke or anything like that it was just that the thought of sex seemed exciting at certain times. I didn’t see guys in the street and go oh wow he’s hot, no it wasn’t like that I would have fantasies of liaisons in the dark with faceless men, I had no interest in a relationship just sex.

I wanted a relationship with a woman, to love and cherish and maybe the occasional thing on the side. But it didn’t seem to matter there was no half way for men, you were either straight or gay with nothing in between.

The slightest hint of affection displayed between men would be attacked by men and women as disgusting. While female bi-sexuality is presented as being titillating for both sexes.

When we eventually broke up I was devastated. She told me that she had met another bloke and she was going to Jindabyne with him. When she told me I grabbed a glassed framed photo of us together and smashed it on the ground. I took one long shard and stabbed it into my left forearm twice. It did not go in very deeply but far enough to allow a slow trickle of blood to ooze out. It was a pattern that I would repeat.

She came over to visit me at my mum’s house that night for what seemed like a sympathy fuck. We slept jammed together on my child hood bed and I relished the chance to join with her again. She lay back and I entered her gently forcing my way inside, thrusting, in and out, supporting myself with my arms on the bed. My left arm was bandaged from the wound I inflicted in the morning, and the pressure on my arm was forcing the blood out. The bandage was soaked red and a trickle of blood marked the mattress. We changed positions so I could clean up.

I dreamt of being a great bodybuilder. I thought that the massive muscles were a dramatic assertion of masculinity. So I took steroids, lifted big weights, shaved my legs and ate massive amounts of food. All of my friends were aspiring bodybuilders and I was preparing for an upcoming contest. We all wanted to be HUGE! Darren was one of the first guys I met at the new gym I had joined on at Southport.

I could see this nuggetty bloke about 5’6” doing some dumbbell bench press and he had just finished what looked like a warm up set. He put the weights he had been using back on the rack and grabbed a pair of 100lb dumbbells, dropped them near the bench he was using and strides towards me

“G’day mate how ya goin”. He put his hand out to shake mine, as I am about to release his hand he grabs it again and takes me through the handshake ritual….you know normal shake followed by finger shake, then shake with the thumb pointing up and palm open, then high five, something like.

“Me names, Darren, can you give me a spot on this set mate”, he asks

“Yeah no worries”

He does the set and pumps out ten reps I give him a little help to get them up initially and them and bit of a hand on the last 3 reps.

“Thanks man, good spotting, some dudes cant spot for shit. How long you been training?”

“About 2 years off and on, started doing weightlifting now do bodybuilding.”

Darren looked at me earnestly and in a low voice said “You need to get on the gear mate?”

“What gear?”

“Don’t you know what the gear is, your kidding me, shit dude your missing out, Roids mate, the gear, its fuckin wicked shit mate, I just started a course about four weeks ago and I have put on 8kgs, and I have added 20 kgs to my bench.”

“Full on, that’s pretty impressive, how does it work”

“Well there is heaps of different shit out there, but I’ve been taking sustanon, it makes you really strong, but I will see what I can get ya.”

“You should ask Shane, he takes heaps of gear, he can probabley score for ya.”

“Who’s Shane?”

“He’s that huge dude over there, “

I started on deca Durabolin, stanazalol, primo bolan, sustanon 250

On my first course I gained 10kgs, and experienced massive strength gains. My appetite went up, I didn’t need to sleep as much, my strength and weight kept increasing every time I trained, it was incredible I was loving the experience.

Darren got”bitchies” from the sustanon 250, so I was going to use that sparingly. I think he took a bit too much though 5mls a week when the recommended dosage is 1 ml every 2-3 weeks. It made his nipples smell, a soft fatty mass in contrast to the slabs of pectoral muscle. It seemed a bit weired but still it didn’t deter me, I’d have my own in time.

Muscle and Fitness was the first real bodybuilding gym I had trained at and it was here that I was first introduced to the reality of steroid use. It was unlike any other gym I had been to, there were just so many huge muscle freaks. I was advised by a few professional bodybuilders that in order to be competitive steroid use was mandatory.

Shane was one of these bodybuilders. He was in his late thirties about 5’ 10” and weighed in at 110 kgs with very limited body fat.

“So Shane I was just wondering whether you might be able to help us out, I wanted to get some steroids?”

“Yeah you wanna get on the gear do ya, might be able to help ya out, drop into the gym tomorrow afternoon and I will see what I can do.”

I turned up the next day but was not able to score any gear. Months later I saw Shane again he had lost about 25 kilos and looked haggard. In the meantime I had been able to score some ‘roids and had added about 10kgs of solid muscle to my frame.

“What the fuck happened to Shane, man he’s lost some serious weight, I mean he looks like shit”

“Yeah apparently he had a heroin habit, got the better of him and he has been in gaol for the last 5 months.”

This image was to live in my memory for years and I didn’t realise, until later, how it would relate to my own experience.

I dieted for about three months took stanozolol to cut up and increased my cardio activity. I won my first competition, it was the Gold Coast Bodybuilding Championship (IFBB) and I became Junior Mr Gold Coast. It was a huge rush, that moment when I was presented with the winners trophy was one of the great highs in my life.

I had trained so hard and with a complete focus on this one event. It was a dream come true, all I wanted to do was to have that feeling again that feeling of being a winner and having people applaud.

Mum eventually got sick of me just hanging around the house not working. “Dave what’s wrong with you why can’t you get a job, I work hard long hours to provide for you and you do nothing, I want you to get a job now! I’m sick of your slack ass attitude. I buy all the food for your bloody bodybuilding and pay all the bills your just a god dam leach” Mum was like that she would do nothing and let things go until one day she would snap.

I was taken aback. What would I do, I needed to earn some money, so looked in the papers. I scanned through all the adds and came to one that said “Bodybuilders wanted “, and I thought I am a bodybuilder they must mean me and then I read further, “for building truck bodies”. No good for me.

I got a job for a while working as a “glassy” in a local pub but the late nights and smoke interfered with my training and so I resigned. I needed a job that would compliment my training. We were allowed to drink while on duty it seemed bizarre but we each had a tab and could get wasted while we worked.

Mum gave me a book called “Muscle” By Sam Fussel, it was an autobiographical account of a skinnny young Oxford’s graduates transformation into massive ripped bodybuilder.

Then I came to another add. “Fit young men wanted for escort work”. I looked at the advertisement and wondered whether I could do it. I knew I was attractive and I might get to have sex with some good looking women, but I wouldn’t do it if I had to have sex with men.

So I rang the number. The advertisement said to ask for Neil. A female voice answered, “AussieDog Can I help you?”

“Yes I was hoping to speak to Neil “

“Just one moment please”

“Hi Neil here, how can I help you?”

“I was actually just ringing about your ad in the Gold Coast Bulletin. “

“Oh, is that right and what is your name?”

“My name’s Dave.”

“Ok Dave, so you think you might fit the bill hey?”

“Yeh, I am a bodybuilder and,….ah pretty good looking.”

“Well why don’t you come down to visit me and we can discuss this further”

“I guess so, where do I go?”

“Come in to my office in Surfers, and we can go from there.”

I came in, met Neil and we discussed the work. Neil was a man in his late fifties who was married with two adult sons and ran his own pet food company. I met him in his office in Surfers Paradise that overlooked the beach.

I thought long and hard about this process. But if it was good enough for mum then it was good enough for me. Anyway it was like a tradition in my family so I was just following that path well worn by the licentious labours of my relatives.

“So Dave you know what this work involves?” Neil lent back in his leather chair and rubbed his hands through his thinning grey hair.

“Yeah I guess so, having sex with rich women right?”

“Well yes that is part of the job. How do you feel about doing that?”

“Yeah no problem I can handle it alright.”

“Sometimes we get unusual requests from clients, how would you handle that?”

“What do you mean?” I said folding my arms.

“Well you know they may want some unusual services…” Neil used his hands to make circles in the air.

“Oh you mean kinky stuff, well I ……I don’t know, that would depend what they wanted I guess.”

“What say the client was a man, how would you feel about that?” Neil stared straight at me and raised his eyebrows.

Leaning back in my chair I blushed and said “Ah well I’m not gay, so I wouldn’t do it, I mean I couldn’t do it, nah, I’d definitely pass on that one.”

Neil tilted his head to one side and asked, “You sure about that?”

“Yeah, women only for me, ok”

“I think I understand”, Neil said nodding his head.

But a week later he rang me. “Hi Dave its Neil here, how are you, just following up from our meeting last week wondering whether, you might consider seeing a client?”

“Oh yeah that would be cool, what’s the deal?”

“Well you remember when I asked you if you would consider seeing male clients?”

“Yeah”

“Well most of our clients are male and I have someone who would like to book you.”

“ah-huh”

“So what do you say.”

“Ah, I’m not sure I would have to think about it…..”

“Well I tell you what have a think about it and then give me a call back, no pressure.”

I rang him back later and agreed. It was a decision that would feed my sense of self-loathing. Sometimes I found it exciting and revolting all at once. But I enjoyed being worshipped the attention and adoration was pleasant, even if it was from an old man.

Neil rang me at home on a couple of occasions and my mother answered, she gave me a very suspicious look as she handed me the phone. After that I asked him not to call me at home.

I can remember going to see him getting paid and declining to participate in a group orgy because I was taking Rita out for Valentines Day, using money I had made selling my ass. I would often use the money from Neil to take her out to our favourite Mexican restaurant, Montezuma’s.

Montezuma was an interesting bloke who was destroyed by Hernan Cortez, its one of those stories where you just want to slap the fool. He was a fatalistic kind of guy who believed that Cortes was the incarnation of Quetzalcoatl , I always found this story difficult, it was like a corny movie with a crappy plot with more holes in it than a junkies arm. I mean how could a group a few hundred blokes take on an army of thousands and kick their asses, fuckin mad.

The god Quetzalcoatl is sometimes portrayed as an ouroboros on Aztec and Toltec ruins, but we will talk more about ouroboros in later chapters. In Aztec mythology Quetzcoatl is described as a bearded white-skinned god would come to herald the apocalyptic end of Aztec civilization.

But like all great historical records this one like all the others suffers from the fact it is reported by the victors the Spanish. Sure the Spaniards had guns and armour but the key to their victory was in the fact that they allied themselves with tribes hostile to the Aztecs who provided men, food and shelter.

Anyway amidst the gaudy Aztec reliefs Rita and I were drinking sangria and lusting for each other it was great. On the walls were various murals with the Aztecs in action, holding bloody knives and still beating hearts in their hands.

"The usual method of sacrifice was to open the victim's chest, pull out his heart while he was still alive, and then knock the man down, rolling him down the temple steps, which were awash with blood."

I trained at Muscle and Fitness for a few months, got to know the staff and bulked up after my first course of steroids. I was now beginning to fit in. I really wanted to get a job as a gym instructor and when a position became available I jumped at the opportunity.

Steve Rifle was the owner of the Muscle and Fitness gym. Steve had been in the Finks for years and now used the gym as a front to launder his drug money. Steve had a receding hair line, a full beard and no one fucked with Steve. But he was also incredibly generous and warm hearted.

“You need some gear man, here take this shit, no worries, you can fix me up later, its cool, ay.”

He was a man of few words, and eminated a powerful aggressive energy.

Steve and his brother Ray were well known for their hard nosed approach to business. Home invasions, torture and bashings were common events for these guys.

“Yeah so this cunt calls me on the fuckin mobile and says he wants ta kill me, and like I’m goin, yeah well come on then cunt, I gave im me address and said come on over sunshine, I’m ready and fuckin waiting, in fact I’m looking forward to it, I mean what the fuckin, callin me on the phone and abusing me for fucks sake it was bullshit. “

Working as a gym instructor I was able to get to know allot of people in the bodybuilding scene. Employment opportunities for bodybuilders are fairly limited, security, stripping or gym work. So it was that I met Ian and I was offered an opportunity to join a new group of male strippers called “Muscle Down Under”. The group was comprised of bodybuilders and we performed at a club called The Party on the Gold Coast. We wanted to follow in the foot steps of Jamie Dury’s Manpower

There was an advertisement in the local paper for artist’s models. I responded posed nude for life drawing classes conducted by the TAFE. I sat in a cold hall as a group of people painted my well muscled physique. Surprisingly it was very hard work, it is quite a challenge to remain motionless for an extended period of time. My hand or foot would go to sleep and each moment seemed to stretch out into eternity. During a break I would get up and go to the toilet or have a drink still naked.

“Fuckin Manpower suck, they’re a bunch of fags man, I heard from Nicky one of their choreographers that she found them all in bed together after a show one night.”, Mark smirked.

“We are fuckin way better than those cunts, I mean our physiques are much better, our routines are better, they’re a bunch of skinny fags, we’ll kick their assess”

We spent about 6 weeks preparing for our first show. Our manager hired a professional choreographer to help with dance moves and an MC to keep things flowing smoothly on the night. The MC was an old queen who dressed up as an old women for the show and often brought his toy boy with him, it seemed an odd choice to compare a strip show.

We practiced our routines twice a week for six weeks. We had to develop individual and group routines. Then came the costumes which included layers of shirts, bike shorts, Speedos and finally the g-string, which was as far as we went.

We were so nervous on our first night but the show went well and the crowd loved it.

We did a group dance performance to 2 Unlimited’s “Yall Ready for This”, the big hit from 1992. All us were dressed in camouflage uniforms that had Velcro down both sides on the pants and tops. This meant that we could all yank on our shirts and rip them off in unison, then proceeded to do the same with our pants leaving us in singlets and bike pants and boots. We took it all off down to our g strings.

I was given an American Football uniform complete with helmet and pads. I used the song Kiss by Prince and picked a woman out of the crowd. I would sit her on a chair on the stage and get her assistance to remove my clothing. Then I would pull out a banana and peel it suggestively only to offer it to her to be mouthed and sucked. The women in the audience would usually scream at this point.

One of the other guys dressed up as an old time gangster, another was a ninja

After the shows girls would line up to get their pictures taken with us. Carl was the boss of the group he had been stripping for several years and he mentored us all.

“Hey Carl, can you get me some Stanozolol, I’m just about finished the bottle I got at the moment?” I knew Carl was happy to supply us with the drugs to keep our physiques in top shape.

“Yeah no problem Dave I can organise some of that for you, any of you other guys need any gear.” Most steroids that were available were of the veterinary variety. The less stringent laws regarding the distribution of veterinary products meant that they were much easier to come by than the human equivalent. Although they were essentially the same preparations.

After tying for second place at the QLD state championships I felt disappointed. I had hoped to win and go on to compete at the nationals, but my dream was broken and I felt frustrated.

Just before I was fired from the gym I had an altercation with Steve that nearly led to a fight. They let me go the next day. Now that I had lost my job at the gym I had also lost my training location and as a consequence didn’t train. Started smoking more pot and just gave up.

As my frustration built I thought of ways that I could receive some of the attention that I craved and at the same time express my contempt for bodybuilding.

So I wrote a 2,500 word critique of bodybuilding, the narcissistic drug fuelled sport of fools I said. I wanted to reveal the secrets and so I did.

The story was published on the front page of the Gold Coast Bulletin and created quite a stir.

People rang the newspaper and threatened to have me killed. I feared for my safety and refused to go out. I was worried I might bump into one of the roid boys. They were very unhappy about my story.

I had to get away and so decided to move to Brisbane. I called my brother.

“Hey James, how are you?”

“Yeah not bad, mum was saying that you were thinking of moving to Brisbane.”

“Yeah I need to get away from the Gold Coast, that article I wrote has caused quite a stir and I need to get away for my own safety”

“What do you mean?”

“Well I have had a few people threaten to do me some damage”

“Yeah no shit hey, they didn’t like your story, must feel a bit threatened.”

“Yeah that’s right but anyway, mum was saying you were going to move and wanted a flat mate.”

“You interested?”

“Well most definitely

So I moved to Brisbane and shared a house with my brother. It was a big old Queenslander on a hill in Torwood. It had a great view.

Capitalising on the attention I received from the newspapers I decided to wage my own mini steroid awareness program. So I visited schools, community organisations, Life Education and government agencies to address the issue of steroid abuse as an ex user. I warned them how dangerous it was and advised them to steer clear of drugs, it was funny.

Through networking contacts I had the opportunity to write a paper for a leading Queensland drug education journal on the subject and presented a paper at national drugs conference.

After a few months of preaching I needed a real job and got some work with Greenpeace, I mean it was hardly a real job but it did pay.

James and I got on alright for a few months but after a while my pot smoking and partying that had increased dramatically since I began working for Greenpeace, got on his nerves. He was studying to be a Vet and had a rather intense study regime.

I stopped doing the anti roid preaching and just worked for Greenpeace and sold pot. James hated me smoking pot, he used to smoke but it made him too paranoid, he was naturally very paranoid so pot just fucked him up. We had numerous fights and then he demanded that I move out.


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