CHPT14-1 "glen finds me" (my first real romance)

 

 

CHPT14-1   "glen finds me"

Back in '65, I'd go anywhere with anyone as a way of affirming the bohemian lifestyle I'd finally stumbled into. At the Royal George one Saturday morning I saw 2 cute teenage girls accompanied by two square blokes. They were looking at the "hippie freaks", the guys drinking beer and scowling at anyone who looked twice at the girls.

I'd been giving the one called Liz the eye and, as her alcohol began working, she smiled at me. It was what I'd been praying for. When the males were in the dunny I guided her down the backstairs and we moved closer until we touched lips. After 3 gentle kisses she said,

"That guy I with is a dickhead. I'd rather be with you. You're cool."

I filled my voice with Errol Flynn plus a touch of honey and said,

"Come with me to the Casbah."

We snuck out and crossed the road. One of her friends ran from the pub and yelled "Leave her alone you b*****d!"

"Uh Oh I’m in the s**t" I thought but as he ran across King Street

a car hit him. He flew 2 metres then sat on his bum looking confused.

People poured out from the "George" bar. They appreciated good drama and gave applause. The accident victim stood up and limped toward me

"I'll kill you, you longhaired poofter".

The car driver, thinking the boy was screaming at him; got out and punched him in the face. The kid careened backward and sat on his bum.. The "George" erupted with more appreciative cheers.

The driver yelled at the kid,

"Don’t call me a poofter you smart-arse prick!."

A car that was now stuck in traffic began horn tooting for the biffer to move his car. The biffer ran and kicked the horn-tooter’s car. Liz and I headed toward my pad but when we got to Hyde Park she’d sobered up and suggested we walk in the park...

"Fine by me" said I, hiding my disappointment. Our arms were entwined so I still felt the elation of romance. We lay on the grass and dug some lip for an hour. Then she left saying she’d meet me next week but she never showed up.

 

One night at the Piccolo Bar I noticed a woman about 20 with a black jacket and blue jeans waving to me from outside. She was slim and pretty and looked like Sandra Dee. I signaled her to come in.

"You are Cass aren't you?"

I nodded enthusiastically 5 times.

"Ossie told me you know John Sande. He's living with my sister Bronwyn, but I've lost the letter with their address." Her voice was jelly meat to my inner cat..

"I want her", my heart purred as I calculated,

"She needs me to take her to her sister. All I've got to do is keep the other predatory bums away from her".

Using my super sensory side vision I noticed Tony Kelly (the mad monk of Paddington and well known womanizer) making his way toward us. He’d soon introduce himself like a shark to fresh blood and behind the counter Don Gibson, the handsome waiter and well known Casanova imitator, was combing his long locks in anticipation of asking her to come home with him after work. He looked a mix of John Barrymore and Lord Byron and wore a flowing black cape so I had to act fast.

Dragging her out side I explained,

"If we hurry and walk fast we may just catch John and Bronwyn before they leave for the party." Putting on an attractive facial expression; I herded her divine humanity toward Cleveland Street.

We slowed down when I saw no one following, and on the way to Surry Hills, I found she’d never been to Sydney before and was overjoyed about seeing her sister who’d left home at 16 and, like many of us, had gone searching for a life.

"My other sister is still at home trying to calm mum and dad. Parents don’t get it do they? I mean about us pissing off. My sister just needed love, man. Like everyone. This Sande guy: do you know him well?" 

Sande was one of the first friends I'd made who’d shared my interest in "beatitude" and we occasionally swapped semi-deep thoughts. I told her,

"He's a cool cat. He invented tie-dyed-shirts and has the gift of encouraging me to be honest for a change.. He’s just about my best friend. You'll like him,"

Sande had a great basement pad at the corner of Liverpool St and Womerah Ave. (with a fabulous LP collection) We both sold "Kings Cross Censor" newspapers on the street at night. The "Censor" was a cheapskate copy of the "Kings Cross Whisper" --both had lots of porn and satire. We'd yell out

"get ya filthy perverted banned porno magazine."

Sande was a genuine beatnik character and was very handsome. I thought,

"Lucky bugger could score ANY chick. Hope Glen doesn’t fall for the b*****d,"

John was devoted to. Bronwyn but in case they’d broken up in the last hour I projected a prayer to heaven.

"Dear God, please let this girl fall for me and live happily ever after, with me, me, and no one else. Amen."

Although I considered myself a Buddhist I wanted to use all means available. Why not? It was free. 

Arriving at the Cleveland St. Push pad, we saw a party in full swing. Charlie Mingus' "Better Get in Your Soul" blasted out the terrace house open windows and a physical confrontation was occurring on the front step. The bop jazz made it a ballet of biff.

Two "old push" (Ted Volomere and English Paul) were pushing a little red-bearded gnome down the steps.. Ted looked and dressed like a pirate from days of yore and was as short as the bloke he was pounding. That being so, no one objected to the biffing. Actually, Paul was pushing: Ted punched. We climbed the front steps and, like a butch dude, I protected Glen from poorly aimed punches until we made it to the veranda where the crowd was watching.

Big Malto (6’7’) told us,

"The little b*****d tried to pinch Trevor Trueheart's radio. He had it stuffed up his jumper and it fell out when he waved goodbye!" Everyone laughed at the idea of stealing from a "push" party. It was "just not done."

Down on the footpath a tall elegant red head with a posh accent was tending the wounds of the gnome. Later I heard he was a philosophy professor at Sydney University. Dark haired Suicide Jenny went down and helped the posh accent cleaned the blood from the professors face. Jenny yelled,

"You animal b******s call y’self hippies and the love generation! You're just a bunch of hoodlums." Jenny had bobbed hair and was the girlfriend of Phil Bryden-Brown, a hyphenated beatnik with a crew cut. Both were alcoholics and when they had one of their frequent violent arguments, Jenny was inclined to slash her wrists.. When sober, both of them were sweet and pleasant. Phil looked like Patrick Swayze mixed with Lee Marvin and when pissed he was ornery. 

After English Paul and Pirate Ted had punishing Gnome, they returned upstairs to party. On hearing Jenny's denunciation they laughed .Ted said,

"We is hoodlums, English Paul. We ain't got no class!" Paul, using the same vocal imitation of a New York pug replied,

"Duh… I ain't no bum widout no class!"

Then (with an Irish accent) he yelled,

"Oil foyt anyone in the house!"

Laughter exploded around the crowded lounge room and Glen found her sister and we went to the kitchen where pot was being smoked. There was a class consciousness developing in the Push.

Pot smokers thought grass more enjoyable than booze and the two groups often congregated in different rooms.

The party raged on until Glen and I felt like privacy and adjourned to my single bed pad. As usual, I had no taxi fare, so we walked through the warm spring evening to my room in Forbes Street. I was high as a kite to be close to this warm, sweet scented live female human.

We reached my place and dived into bed .I blessed the day I managed to scrounge ten bucks to rent this wonderful room. Otherwise I would have had to woo her on a park bench.

Glen began moving against me and I figured we would soon become "as one". A year before when I'd had my first sexual experience with a 40-year-old wine-o lady called Undine; I'd never seen the details of what lay beneath her dress. She'd just grabbed my dork and placed it in her, so I had no idea which hole to put it in. Some would-be Lothario had once told me,

"Women got "three holes" down below. One's a p***y, one's for peeing out of, and one is for wanking themselves off and for guys to lick.''

However, I hadn't yet found out which was where. What was I to do? I didn't want Glen to think that I'd never made it before. She'd think I was a virgin! That would be too embarrassing. 

We lay kissing gently in the dark. Never had I felt such gratitude for having a room (and bed) of my own. My penis was circumcised and well proportioned. I'd longed to show it off to a female for years. I kept exploring her face with kisses and winking the muscles in my a*s so she could feel my c**k moving up and down, knocking against the soft warmth. She took my exceedingly wondrous ( to me) shlong and effortlessly slipped the tip of it in and out and around and up and down and around until I could feel myself about to shoot.

Inexperienced as I was, I had often practiced (alone) for this very situation, and I managed to calm it down and not ejaculate. Glen was doing her own thing and seemed happy so I didn't change the movement. Then she began to erupt, so I kept pumping and held on while she bucked. I came in an orgasmic explosion. Glen was still humping so I gave a dozen gigantic extra thrusts and she must have jumped on because she made eight shuddering twitches of a spasmodic nature, froze in time and then relaxed.

Our old European landlord in the next-door kitchen yelled something I couldn't make out. He probably had his ear trumpet stuck up to our wall. Glen kissed me. We laughed then cuddled up. We were both smiling. I felt happier than I’d ever been so I figured I had done things right. We’d become a pair.

Through the rest of that long enchanted night I lay and listened to her breathe. Her scented skin caressed my senses and the awareness of her sleeping next to me gave such contentment that I telepathed to god,

"Oh thank you -thank you."

In the early morning light, I lay on my side still feasting my eyes on the curve and contour of her profile. I was in ecstasy and stayed so for the next 3 days and nights. We snuggled in bed, only getting up to go to the toilet and snatch food from the communal kitchen.

This was really living. THIS was what life was about: what the world was searching for, why men went to work every morning and why squares accumulated money.

Well cool cat Casbah had it without working. I was getting carried away, so I slowed down my self satisfaction and just gave thanks to Glen. I was in love and told her so every half hour..

We went for picnics in the Botanical Gardens and held court at the Royal George, but mostly we stayed in bed. Glen's money ran out and my rent was due, but having a young woman in my bed led the landlord to extend leniency.

The old fella, to get a close look at Glen, delivered us a daily tray of food..

 

 ----------to be cont--------------