Posts Tagged ‘university’

Stravinksy Teen Sex Romp

September 4, 2008

I was sixteen. My eldest brother was studying at university. Well, truth be told he’d finished studying not long after he started and was doing theatre stuff instead. This story is from his post-educative period. He was part of the university dance group and they were putting on Stravinksy’s Rite of Spring. Naturally. It was about 1965 and they’d just invented this thing called The Pill. Stravinsky was on everyone’s mind back then.

My brother invited me to spend the weekend in the city where he shared a house with a bunch of interesting people. I turned up with my toothbrush and a suitcase, probably a change of underwear in case I got run over by an Ambulance or whatever it was my mother was on about at the time. Saturday was filled with rehearsal stuff, everyone being coached by a very short and very round woman in very tights. She cut an unexpected figure.

Saturday evening was the big event. We turned up at the university theatre. Dancers were dressing for the performance. Actually, undressing. They were clad in skin and leaves as I recall. My memory is only as good as my testosterone levels these days.

There was a long corridor shaped room where the dressed dancers were tanned. And this is where I found my purpose in life. I was given an electric spray gun, the kind used for painting houses. It worked on the continuous fart principle, a little compressor thing in there somewhere doing what baked beans could have done had we the time.

There was also a can of brown pigment, the tanning solution, highly concentrated. To thin it down for spraying they gave me a gallon or two of medicinal alcohol from the med school. This was a university, remember, so medicinal alcohol was something of a universal solvent.

And I got to work. An inch of pigment in the canister, fill up with thinner, and spray. Spray everyone, every exposed glimpse of skin, miss nothing, be diligent, Stravinsky is watching. As the dancers dressed they came to my corridor and I sprayed them. They appeared, I sprayed, they left, they were replaced, I sprayed.

In the next hour I sprayed-tanned probably fifty bodies, more maybe, but I wouldn’t like to spoil a good story with exageration. Body after body, beautifully feminine bodies, and each one nicer than the last, and so much more sprayable than the dance tutor that my mind has never recovered. It was adolescent heaven. I had never, and have never since, had mind sex with so many people in so short a time in all my life.

And guess what. As fast as I was spraying those bodies and that pigment was making them look like nymphs in a sunlit glen, that thinner was evaporating into the air of that narrow corridor. We finished every last ounce of thinner. There is not a lot of air in a corridor. And I was the only person who stayed there for the whole time. Breathing. I was breathing. I might just as well have been drinking.

I don’t remember much about the performance. It was Stravinsky, after all, and I was only sixteen. But I do remember the day after. My brother went to the university to help clean up. My mother and step-father picked me up to go to some place for lunch.  We went back to my brother’s place so I could pick up my suitcase as I’d forgotten to put it in the car that morning. That’s when it happened.

I’d been sleeping in my brother’s room. On a matress in the corner. The opposite corner from his bed. Behind the door. Got that? Opening the door revealed his bed. Use your spatial imagination here.

So… we got out of the car. Unlocked the front door. I went to get my stuff from the room. I opened the bedroom door. On my brother’s bed was one of his housemates making love to somebody I didn’t know. Not even a sheet over them. The image is still burned into my memory. One day I will find out how to download it and post it here.

I stopped. They stopped. I was speechless. They were speechless. Time passed. I recited a Shakespeare sonnet. Something about roses. No I didn’t, I closed the door. I remember now.

And I stood outside that door without a clue of what to do. I went into the lounge room where my step-father noticed I didn’t have my suitcase. He told me to go get it. He was impatient. I tried to say something, it didn’t work. He repeated himself. So did I. My mother said, “And change those trousers while you’re there. You’ve spilled something on them at lunch.” Suddenly being sixteen didn’t seem like such a position of power.

I returned to the bedroom door. The people now had a sheet over them so I reckoned it was safe to enter. I turned to my gear behind the door on the other mattress and started to take off my trousers. The next minute is a bit of a blank, but at the end of it I was outside the door again and the bloke in there was getting pretty loud and angry. I understand that bit better in hindsight.

My step-father was pretty cranky himself by this time and his volume was rising. He could be heard through the door. Suddenly there were four of us in the room. The bloke had emerged with the sheet wrapped around him. He said, “Perhaps we can settle this like grown adults … da da da .. ” or words to that effect. How should I know what he said? Grown adults were a mystery to me.

Somehow we got my clothes from the room, we got ourselves from the house, and we got home. But I don’t remember how.

I wonder sometimes if my step-father ever told the story. You know, when I wasn’t there. At Rotary or somewhere. There’s got to be a free beer in a story like that.

For my part, I found spring that year something of a revelation. And even with my mother’s best intentions, I didn’t need those extra y-fronts. On the other hand, had she known how to pack a cold shower into a suitcase perhaps the weekend might have turned out differently.

Nah. There’s no shower that cold.