Janus 5
I must have been around 13 years old when I discovered a dark, horseshoe patch above my genitals. It seemed too deliberate, too symmetrical to be accidental. Was I the carrier of some mysterious disease? Neither my mother, and certainly not my father, had prepared me for this change in my body, I did not have that sort of relationship with either of my parents. It was only when I mentioned it to a school mate, a few months older than me, who dismissed my alarm with a snigger.
‘That’s nothin’, I got it last year. It means you’re a man now.’
In the coming days the stain burst through the surface, as dark pinheads pushed up beneath the skin like an army of subterranean ants. I didn’t know it then that they were the harbingers of a force that was to control my adult life: desire.
As the hairs grew they became the focus of secretive, lustful moments in dreamy nights and clammy, dimly-lit spaces. Soon the focus transited from my own body to that of others. Desire awoke and slid sensuously, over the naked body of men and women, whose images I saw on screens and magazines. In the streets my eyes looked for signs of muscular strength on the arms of men. Later, years later, when I experienced all the ecstasy and the guilt of sex, I could not decide whether I had been blessed or cursed.
At the same time- and this is where the narrative gets convoluted- I desired women, and loved them intensely. Olga was as classy as her name suggested. Her family were pioneer farmers and by far the biggest landowners in the district. Olga’s father employed a manager to run the farm, while he travelled extensively as president of the Woolgrowers Association. Olga’s catholic college for girls had an arrangement with my school to hold combined events, mainly school dances. When the two schools decided to do a stage production of’ Picnic at Hanging Rock, Olga got the role of Miranda, while I was given a bit part.
Olga was born to play the beautiful Miranda. She was tall, refined, long-necked. Her long dark hair framed her sharp cheeks and fell in a cascade of curls around her shoulders. I wanted to bury my head in that mass of hair, take in the perfume, hold on to the dream. When making a point Olga would twirl the ends of her hair around her middle fingers and occasionally toss a lock over her shoulders for emphasis. I wanted to kiss those shoulders.
I did not dream of doing sex with Olga. For me sex was still a mystery, I had vague notions I picked up from remarks I heard from time to time. I imagined it had something to do with pressing oneself on to a female, with suggestions of violation and violence. I had no desire to do any of that with Olga. I did not want to spoil her perfection and certainly did not want to spoil her flawless beauty in any way.
My fantasy contact with Olga was restricted to the upper part of the body. The kiss I had rehearsed many times since I first set eyes on her deliciously pouting mouth, involved some imaginary fluid exchange, of which I was a little ashamed. Olga was my angel, perfect and virginal, and to think of her in any other way pierced my conscience.
More earthy were the fluids I dreamed of exchanging with Miss Marinovic, the drama teacher, who directed the play. She was in her mid-thirties, voluptuous and moved like a flamenco dancer as she demonstrated movement and posture to the young actors.
Olga was a few months older than me, a good deal taller and more confident. She was also the star of the show. All of which fascinated and intimidated me in equal measures. On those rare occasions when Olga’s eyes met mine I was astounded that she even noticed me. To my mind Olga was destined for the West End, but her ambitions were less lofty, if more rarefied: she wanted to be an air hostess. Like all of us, she wanted to escape our small world. One day, out of the blue, she turned to me with a defiant expression and asked,
‘Have you ever thought about being a pilot?’
I was so amazed to be spoken to at all, that I felt my face turn red and unable to speak. Then she rested her eyes on me, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and added, ‘You’ll have to grow up a bit though,’ and she brushed the nape of my neck with the back of her fingers, the same fingers around which she twirled the ends of her hair. Decades have passed and I get a charge of pleasure every time I think of that touch.
Of course I got taller than Olga, but by then she was leaving for places in her quest to escape the humdrum of small-town world. At 15 she was sent to an expensive school in the city, no doubt a stepping stone to a jet-setting career. Twenty years would pass before I connected again with Olga, on Facebook. Ah, the miracles of technology!
‘Of course I remember you, Janus. I really liked you. You were different from the other boys. There was a… sensitivity about you. But it wasn’t easy to get near you, you were so timid. I guess that was part of the attraction’.
‘How did you wind up in Sacramento?’
‘Ah, long story.’
And not a particularly happy one, by her regretful tone.
Missed chances! I still think about Olga. I fancy that my life would have been very different had we managed to connect. On the other hand, my friend Ambrose (more of him later in this narrative) has a different take on this, ‘You should never marry someone you’re besotted with. Have an affair, by all means. Marriage? Never, that’s really asking for trouble'.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, a lifetime of jealousy, insecurity. Always worrying about whether she is getting bored with you and how to keep men’s eyes and hands off her.’
Comments
Cynic2
“I fancy that my life would have been very different had I been with her.”
I doubt it, even if this story is true, which I also doubt. I tend to agree with your buddy Ambrose. Let me quote Boy George referring to another rocker, “Robbie will do anything to be seen as straight…”
This whole narrative is designed to show that you are, in essence, a straight man. You are not.
Amby
Cynic, Janus has already confessed he is bi, that means both homo and hetero, therefore not straight. And if the likes of you are a sample of straight, then I’d rather be me any day.
Cynic2
I don’t care how hard you try and make yourself a victim. You’re still hiding something, and I don’t believe half of what you’re saying, anyhow.
Lady S
Personally I think you’re wonderful. As for you, Airies whateveryoucallyourself, if you don’t believe Janus, why are you reading his blog?
Airies (and proud of it)
Because Anna is reading it. Are you still with us, Red Anna?
Red Anna
I am, Proud Airies, but not sure for how long. This story’s dragging out too long for me ...
Airies (and proud of it)
So, Red Raw Anna, slow doesn’t suit you either?
Red Anna
Depends!
Airies (and proud of it)
On what?
Red Anna
Mmhh!
Salubrius
Aries and Red Anna, do you have to carry on like this? You’re behaving like a pair of pubescents.
Cynic2
For once I have to agree with Salubrius, these two are pathetic. And I don’t believe for a minute that there is anything pubescent about them. I think they’re a couple of retirees with time on their hands, playing out their fantasies on line.
Amby
Stay on course, everybody. The juicy bits are still to come.
Red Anna
Can’t wait for it, so far it’s pretty tame. How about some real action.
Cynic2
How do you know, Amby, you’re not by chance Janus, are you?
Amby
Definitely not. Unlike Janus I sorted myself out a long time ago. I know who I am and I’m comfortable with me. I also know where this is going. Been there, done that.
I'm into it, wonderful! Thank you for sharing!