Sex on Tap

I went jogging with G, or do I call him Big Boy? Perhaps, it can be Big Boy G. He's my Greek mate, we've been friends for years.

As we jogged down by the Yarra - the times, in between, I wasn't getting called piss-weak for walking - he was telling me about his new girlfriend, Valentina - lawyer, power suit brigade.

She can't keep her hands off it, mate, said G. I've never known a bitch like her. She's amazing. Two girls jogged towards us dressed in black body suits. They looked like power-dykes to me. I wondered if I was too ghettoised?

G started to smile.

What?

I shouldn't have been thinking about Valentina and shit, in jogging shorts.

What?

He slid his hands in front of his shorts.

I looked down.

He slid his hands away. Pretty good, huh?

Jesus, G! I looked away.

Valentina chokes on it.

Bigger hands than mouth, then, huh?

Way bigger!

I looked back at him. Put it away.

I don't care. She's addicted to the peen - as G calls it - maaatttee, taking off all the wog boys he's ever known. She can't keep her hands off it.

It's okay for you to take off the wogs, I said. But it's not okay for me?

He grabbed my head and staged a mock pulling of my face into his groin.

Well, I wouldn't say derogatory things about your lot, he said. But you can. It's the same thing.

Our feet went thud, thud on the grass, together.

That's all you guys ever think about, I said. Ya Peen!

G sort of snorted a laugh. And like you guys fucken don't?

I don't know, it always seems to be more of a mutual thing with guys, I said. You boys just have this self-obsessed desperation that just seems to be about you, because you get turned down so much.

Get fucked! said G. You are so full of shit!

So full of shit that it is getting you hot under the collar.

This is - he emphasised the 'is', as if to confirm rather than tell - why most straight guys hate you guys, you know, said G. Because you can get sex whenever you want and then you just can't help but brag about it.

He increased his speed. But you sure can't fucken run.

I caught up to him, determinedly, it nearly killed me, but I wasn't going to show it. Unfortunately, my voice went up an octave. Can too!

Get fucked fag boy, said G, laughing between his gasps.

Don't call me fag boy. Big breathe! You wog cunt! I said, breathing hard. Same principle applies.

Come on. G slapped me playfully on the arse, with a full hand. We hoofed it up the Punt Road hill, in sink.

I could still feel his hand on my arse.

G got married when he was thirty and divorced when he was thirty five. For months, he walked around saying, Hi I'm G and I'm divorced. Hi I'm G and I'm divorced. I don't want to say that, he'd almost whine.

You've got to snap out of this, buddy.

You know Christian, he'd say. It was the one thing I never - emphasis on never - wanted to have to say. It was always something that was going to happen to someone else.

May be?

Mate, I'm the only divorced member of my whole family. The only one!

Then he went into a decline for the rest of the year. He shut himself away, cut himself off, completely. My mate Silvia pulled him out of it, with some old fashioned loving. She said he was hot sex; could go twice, very confidently. Always made her cum. They are not together now, the split was mutual, but it seems to have bought him back to normal.

"Nick (G's real name. Don't ask me why I call him G) has the most perfect penis," enthused Silvia, one night when she'd had too many chardies.