It was never mentioned. Period. Sex transcended taboo in my upbringing. My earliest recollections of sexuality are being introduced by my marginally older cousin to OzBike magazines at his local paper shop, and finding Hustler magazines and a pornographic novel under my eldest brother’s bed. I recall that the Hustler magazines were encountered in my third year of school, when I was roughly eight years of age. The OzBike magazines predated this by perhaps twelve months at most.
Ever since I saw the tattooed, large breasted, high-heel booted biker models draped provocatively over Harleys in OzBike, I developed an instant and lasting fixation. Not for motorbikes, mind you. I was preoccupied by these goddesses and my thoughts were often consumed—with scant capacity left for more wholesome stimulation. Almost every afternoon we would visit the shopping centre on the same block as my school. Why we were there so often escapes me now, but every couple of days would find my mother, middle brother and I at the news agent where mum spent what at the time seemed like forever browsing, or being attended at the counter. This freed me to beetle off to the back section, where OzBike and other ‘adult’ magazines were kept. I would furtively, extremely furtively, riffle through magazines looking for stocking-clad legs, leather-bound bottoms and creamy white boobs. The thrill was intense and the risk palpable. Terrifying, yet delectable. People would come into the aisle with little warning and I was under the unshakable belief that they were ‘onto me’. Unaware as I was, the foundations underpinning a prominent, confusing and often debilitating pillar of my life were being laid.
The thrill was intense and the risk palpable. Terrifying, yet delectable.
Once, and I think only once, the lady behind the counter at the news agency called out to me from the counter in a shocked or affronted tone stating something along the lines that I shouldn’t be looking at those magazines. I downed whatever it was I was ogling and ran. No repercussions followed me. You must understand, being the moral flagship that I misguidedly thought I ought to at least attempt to be, that my ‘furtive’ and ‘ran’ are not to be imagined in the Dickensian, Artful Dodger sense. Rather, they were polite, dignified and at the same time nonchalant. The kind of attitude you wish to slap out of anyone arrogant enough to think they’re better than you. Reflecting now, I can only assume it highly likely that my mother was alerted to my infraction. It was never mentioned. I believe with every confidence that the truth would not even now, twenty years later, be divulged–even if pressed at length. Conveniently selective amnesia is endemic in my family.
The magazines under my eldest brother’s bed (he is ten years older than me), which he swore then and still swore when last I asked as an adult, belonged to a teenager (someone who tragically died when the rescue chopper he was a paramedic on crashed off the coast of North Queensland en route to a rescue several years ago) who visited from Tasmania with an ex-neighborhood friend. The magazines were, naturally, quite graphic. I know now, without question, that there was no penetrative sex depicted in those magazines. But at the time, and in my memory, I must have filled in the blanks. The farmyard barn loft setting featured a cowboy-booted stud and a basket-laden, seemingly innocent, and I assume devoutly Christian (if not explicitly Amish) country girl. During the photo-shoot she progressed from initial meeting to wildly uninhibited clandestine congress, aided by a sex-swing apparatus. I’m not sure why a barn loft would contain a sex-swing, but I could almost taste the arousal which I was sure coated the lucky bales of hay upon which the girl was spread.