three pairs of lovers with space

I CAME TO AUSTRALIA BY ANTHONY BACON

 

This third and last chapter of Anthony Bacon’s hitherto unpublished memoir, A Life with Entrances and Exits, describes his life as a boy-lover on emigrating to Australia in the early 1980s, initially to Sydney. All the photographs here were taken by him and are of boys who actually involved themselves in Greek love then, the two of hustlers of 12 and 13 being the real boys in his account.

Return to Chapter Two

 

Chapter Three.  I Came to Australia

My extended commission in the R.A.F. came to an end in the early 80s, and through a friend who’d flown Twin Pioneers with me in Borneo, I bought a steamer ticket with my paltry service gratuity to go and live in Australia.  After six weeks of chasing boys around a ship, I arrived in Sydney. The weather was wonderful and so were the boys.  

Were Australian boys different from those I’d left behind in the Old Country?  Not even slightly, I was relieved to discover! They were the same deeply curious, sensuous creatures, and had the same enormous capacity for love.  The same wonderful sense of humour, as well. Though popular culture in both sex-repressive nations saw kids generally as silly nothings — neuters, almost — they were of course, none of those things.   

Impish Grin

Said friend and I flew STOL aircraft resupplying every kind of survey and exploration camp known to humankind.  Often, while he was in the bush, I was on leave in Sydney.  The tower-block we lived in overlooked the North Shore and there were sun-browned boys literally everywhere.  Usually barefoot, they must have had soles like shoe-leather.  They also mostly ran around in raggedy Speedos all day and half the night. Boys I met on the lovely beaches and in the local public pools often knocked on my door, but only when they knew my flat-mate was in the bush!  They knew me as keenly as I knew them — just as boys in Europe, the Middle and Far Easts had — and the effect of a smiling man who actually cared what they thought, who laughed a lot and was generous and gentle and patient… Dah-di-dah…

It’s not rocket science.  Kids are incredibly sensitive and even these tough-as-leather Aussie boy would respond to gently ruffled hair and tickled ribs?  The ‘rules’ of play-fighting were the same and I found that many of them had already had their prongs tugged.  Squirming laughter; erections and then sex as far as the boy wanted to go, would often follow.  Or sometimes, with a promise of more later…

Back in the early 80s, boys in Australia were still often allowed to roam free in their own time, and you met them everywhere.  On the beach and in public parks, by rivers and near boatsheds, at shopping-centres or simply riding their bikes in the street.  Like their British cousins, they were largely ignored by their parents.  Though well-fed and well-clothed and though sparkling with good health; they knew that they were secondary in the hermetic world of their mothers and fathers. 

Hermetic?  Yes, back then, kids lived in one world and their parents in another.  Conversations about the really important things in life very rarely happened.  Few boys asked: “Dad, why does my willy get stiff?”.

Perhaps some had fathers who could simply explain the phenomenon in a sensible manner, but most did not, and here it has to be recorded that Australian adults tended to be even more uptight about sexual realities than British parents.  So, for the deeply curious boy, information was thin on the ground…  

Are you still watching?

So, how did they find out about sex and what went where?  Older boys, mainly: “Come on, I’ll show you how to do it…”. Then there was the concept of attractiveness.  A boy half-way good looking would know it from an early age.  Loving aunts and grandmothers pinching their cheeks: “Oh, what a lovely boy!”. Then, later on, men pinching their nether-cheeks…

The truth is that most adults in Australia at that time worked hard and played hard.  The playing part of life included a lot of cold beer and their whole culture reflected the relative lack of importance of their children in the scheme of things. The old adage held: a good boy was neither seen nor heard?

Along comes an adult who smiles and talks gently and listens to what the boy has to say… Wow, what is this?  Does this man really care what I think?  He laughs at my jokes!

OK, after a while, he wants to go behind the bushes… So that’s OK because the boy has been doing this with his friends for some time, and anyway the boy is deeply curious about men

Or maybe this isn’t his first time?  The need for more pocket-money, or simply the thrill of doing something that would cause his sainted mother to have heart-failure is an important part of the attraction? 

Some boys were serious hustlers.  Others couldn’t even spell the word… Two such were a pair of blond surfie-boys I met in a shopping centre as I wondered with my camera.  The older was about 13, the younger 12.  The 13 tried to beckon me over, but I had a feeling of danger nearby and I smilingly retired.  Later, showing a contact-print of the boys to a like-minded friend, he laughed and said that he knew them both!

They apparently always acted as a pair and while the elder would suck off a fire-hose, it was paradoxically the younger boy who would ‘take it up the bum’ — in their own words.

More boys were hustlers in a laid-back, casual way.  A boy called Byron would stretch and grin wickedly and say: “Nah, not unless you pay!”  Giggling and testing me and in effect asking me: “…how much do you want it?”.  And then often forgetting to collect the money afterwards.  The money obviously wasn’t the point.  The truth is that some of those boys were sexy little beasts who hadn’t yet found an interest in girls!

Hustlers of 13 and 12 beckoning over a promising man ...

My own theory is that most of the boys I met had sex with friends or strangers simply for the thrill of the forbidden.  And, of course, for the pursuit of that radical physical-sensation, the orgasm.  The fact that very young boys — in the right circumstances — can be orgasmic was never lost on me.  So, it was outright pleasure?  Or, being the first boy in his class who could wet-come properly?  Yet these boys entered ‘the game’, often before wetness was even physically possible, and that also was not lost on me.

Yes, I suppose there were raggedy kids in Sydney who lived under bridges, but I never did meet any of these.  They tended to be older.

No, my greatest love was for the young and clean, twelve-to-fourteens, mainly.  Slender, smooth-skinned and compact, with enormous eyes and almost always with a complexion untroubled by spots, their arms and legs were covered with a silky golden down, rather than hair…

Yes, and they laughed a lot… Nearly all of them were thrilled to be a part of what they saw as real life.  Treated like equals — but with gentleness and patience — and yes, it was really good to receive money or gifts, or both. That new Swiss Army knife was bonzer… 

And being introduced to new ways of ‘doing it’!  ‘It’, being sex generally.  Often, a boy would happily allow himself to be sucked off, or would offer to suck off the man, but would clearly stipulate ‘no bum-sex’. 

Me, I was as happy as Larry just to be in their company.  So, it is with delight that I can report that many boys having been skilfully sucked over-the-rainbow, would then often gracefully bend over and give me my quid pro quo…. ‘Come-uppance’ seems like too much of a bad pun!

The key to this, with such slender young people was of course, mental rather than physical.  If the boy was happy with doing ‘the big poke’, then it was possible.  If he wasn’t inwardly happy, it simply would not be an option?

I have to say that I could swallow my disappointment in the latter case because I knew that often, a proper fuck could very well happen at a later date…

And yes, I did meet such sweet boys many times more than once.  For me, it had always been the sheer outrageousness of the act of penetrating a boy’s tender bottom that made the act even more exciting than any physical sensation involved. I suppose that I reverted to an element of playful boyishness in my own psyche in those incredible moments?

Another shot of the same two boy lolitas

And here it is opportune to mention that these boys were not forced into prostitution by economic necessity.  For them, the extra pocket money was good to have, but overall, the main driving-force was that sex was wicked fun. You should hear prurient giggles from behind the bushes now…  Oh, those far off days!

There were also the boys that I called the naturals.  Boyish boys with nothing effeminate about them, they just loved having it up the bum!  Finn my sweet Scotty had been one of those.  He loved, he said, watching the effect he had on me as he tightened up and ground his teeth, ’blobbing’ on his own belly as we rutted face-to-face.

So finally, what is it that allows some boys to allow this radical invasion of their bodies?  This ‘act against nature’ — as so many legal people refer to it?  The truth is that I simply don’t know.  I never experienced it myself and I never felt that I wanted to be ‘done’ — as we would said when I was young. 

Natural sensuality and deep curiosity seem to be the prime inspirations; together with the thousands of nerve-endings at that incredibly sensitive spot, perhaps?  Hearing about others doing it and wanting to know what it was like?  As well as love and giving — of wanting to give another gentle, generous person pleasure?

The question was partly answered when first I saw images from the social-media site: Omegle.  This was years ago and there were astonishing pictures of very young people of both sexes, using hair-brush handles, dildoes, even pop-bottles on their bottoms.  Other pictures showed similar-age kids fucking.  And I mean, doing it properly.  Ages varied from mid-teens down to the most amazingly slender, small, prepubescent kids. 

One starkly beautiful image remains etched in my memory.  A blond, slender boy of about thirteen has the larger part of a very large black dildo planted deep inside himself.  His huge blue eyes are wide and his four and a half inch prong is as rigid as a school coat-peg.  It is curved up — as is so often the case with the very young — and his foreskin is fully back and though the quality of the image was poor, it was possible to see the fluid from his Cowper’s glands gathering urgently at his pee-hole… That kid was ready to explode!

I can only expound the theory that stimulation of the prostate gland with the dildo might have had an heightening effect upon this boy’s obvious excitement — but what do I know?

He, and the other girls and boys on that media site should finally put to bed the madly stupid notion that kids are ciphers: devoid of curiosity, sensuality, or even the capacity for love!

What they were doing was preparing themselves for the lists of love in later life!

Across the mighty Atlantic from where I was born, it seems that pederasty also flourished.  Read Edmund White’s A Boy’s Own Story.  The autobiographical author starts off as the older boy in a loving dyad; then ends up as the younger loved-one with grown men, later.  Some of the early pages of the story stand as classic-tales in the — if I may pun madly — the passages of boy-love.

*     *     *     *     *

Imagine, if you will, a scene of near-desolation.  Near the Great Sandy Desert, red earth is thinly covered with scrub and spindly eucalyptus trees.

A house made of corrugated-iron appears below.  Nearby, there is a landing-strip for the Flying Doctor — like a great red scar that might still be sore… You land your Bell G3B1 in a clear patch, where your company has previously left a pile of 44 gallon fuel-drums and you and your mechanic climb out wearily. The mechanic gets straight to work, expertly checking the machine out because tomorrow a small fixed-wing aircraft will land and he will rush off to the next pile of fuel-drums and the next bush-pilot…  Leaving Muggins to do all of his own servicing for the next few weeks.  As well as fly ‘survey grids’ from dawn-to-dusk.

No, often we had idle days, during which the gravity or seismic engineers collated data.  But going back to the arrival: the one thing you could be sure of was that at least one boy would come haring out of the bush — a mile-wide grin and eyes out like organ-stops.

The owner of above ‘cattle station’ probably had no idea how many head of cattle he owned, but his house had an earthen-floor!

His son, though, had a mop of blond hair and periwinkle-blue eyes and his legs were improbably long.  Wearing only the briefest of shorts, he was almost tongue-tied, but he managed to ask me: “’Ow’s it work?”

On one level, it’s not hard to describe a Bell 47.  Everything is exposed!  So, you give a fairly detailed description of how the engine feeds through a reduction gear-box to the rotors, blah, blah, blah, and all the time the boy nods wisely and I do get the impression that he truly does understand. 

He walked slowly around the machine after I had dried up and then he nodded sagely: “Thanks, but you don’t ‘alf talk funny!” and then he grinned cheekily.

This, for me, was the signal to grab him and gently tickle his ribs and that, of course, was the beginning of a sweet friendship?

This kid was hundreds of miles from the nearest school, so he would sit at a pedal-radio with headphones on for part of each day while his teacher in Darwin droned away.  The constant pedalling tuned his slender legs to perfection and every other part of his body was a gorgeous golden-brown.

Inevitably, he asked: “Will you take me for a ride?”

Bingo!  I thought — and grinned wolfishly: “If I do that, what will you do for me?”

Now, you might imagine that a simple farm-boy had seen bulls servicing cows, but that’s about all?  Well you’d be wrong.  Kip blushed and dropped his enormous eyes, then turned even pinker and giggled madly: “You’ll be lucky!” he said decisively [translation: “Get bloody lost!”] and he walked a little way into the bush and then wandered slowly, thoughtfully back to me:

“Alright, but I stay on top!” he said.

Where — or even how — he’d found out about, or experienced, man-boy sex I couldn’t guess, but later he told me that the School of the Air kids would go to Darwin once a year for a few days.  Obviously, with adult ­­­minders…

Of course, I gave him several lovely flights and logged them as ‘air-tests’!

Among we bush-pilots, the brief air-tests that we carried out were currency in exchange for favours given to us by our ‘favourites’.  Most of my colleagues chose the prettiest girl for miles around? Obviously, I chose her younger brother! Which pissed the girls off terribly!

 *     *     *     *     *

Imagine also, a very small coastal town on a wide, muddy river.  Nothing but tin-shacks and a huge dock for loading cattle.  One street and a pub.

The sweetest experience

Though the landing-strip was a good long mile from the township, a cohort of panting boys arrive while the dust from my landing is still in the air. Goggle-eyed and laughing. Christ, in that 40-degree heat, you could even smell their sweet, fresh sweat! Yum!

Again, eventually, one of those leggy beauties would be there on his own and he would pop the expected question.  On one occasion, I had already got into the pants of the prettiest boy in town.  The pub-owner’s son had come to my room and let me up into his tight, warm paradise on the agreement that I would take him flying.

This other boy was a dream-like adjunct!  Of course, I never let Boy A know that I was also fucking Boy B as well…

Thinking that Boy A was my special love was a mistake.  I mean, mine alone?  Early on one of my days off, I met Boy A after breakfast.  Would he like to go flying?  He blushed and hummed and then looked really embarrassed and apologetic.  He’d promised to go on a fishing-trip with the local boatman.  He who brought supplies to the township around the coast and down the river!

Fuck!  Inwardly, I was furiously jealous, but I knew that he’d been ‘friends’ with this guy since he’d been eight…  Fishing, indeed! So I took Boy B flying instead… 

But wasn’t even one of those Oz boys a virgin?  Yes, back in Sydney a boy asked me to help him finish a model Spitfire.  He was only eleven and very shy at first, but he slowly responded to gentle side-on hugs and later, gentle touches, front and back.  One day, I started the zip of his shorts down and he grabbed my hand — suddenly nervous.  I waited and he said:

“Only suck — OK?”

"OK!!!"

It took me months, during several time-off periods in town, to finally ease my gentle way up into his sweet little chuff. By which time he was twelve and definitely ready.

Another boy I met in Queensland was also a virgin, but from his playfully ‘defensive’ behaviour, it was obvious he knew what I was after and it was only a matter of time before I was sucking and fucking him — in that order.

Were there any obdurate virgins?  Yes, I would say nearly a quarter of the lovely boys I knew back then simply did not respond.  But they mostly got a flight anyway. At the time, I simply moved on.

 

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