My Dearest son,

There are some subjects that are difficult for parents to broach with their children and I won't deny that this one might be the most difficult of all. After recent developments in our household, I think you'll agree that you're owed a certain clarification for some of the changes your body is experiencing. Rest assured, it's not my intention to embarrass you and while my natural instincts were to sit you down at the kitchen table, I doubt that either of us could find it within ourselves to look each other in the eye or say what we truly feel.

You've turned a new page, making the step from boyhood into adolescence. But let's not mince words. For many, it's more like a bound across a treacherous chasm. I know all about the excitement and joys that lay in store for you on this journey, just as I know of its longings and shame. Let me paint a picture for you and take you back to a time when I was not unlike many of the boys you know now, a skinny, foul-mouthed cretin whose mind wandered into the muck of human existence, a place from which many a boy fears he may never return.

Shortly after my thirteenth birthday, I started getting pimples on my face. Within weeks, they’d spread around my nose and chin. No sooner would one heal than more would appear, the fair skin of my childhood eaten away by layers of cystic acne, yellow pustules that protruded from the most degrading of places like my lower lip or the tip of my nose. The mornings pained me. I had to step in front of the bathroom mirror and inspect my reflection, anticipating the myriad humiliations waiting for me at school; the gruesome treks between classes, students wincing in disgust and the pitiful looks from my teachers. Only at recess could I find some sort of relief. In a secluded corner of the yard, I was free to catch my breath and fortunately for me, I had company.

My best friend Nicholas lived in a house on a plot of dirt behind the highway. When his Dad was released from prison, Nicholas started showing up on my doorstep every Saturday, PlayStation in hand. When we weren't in front of the television, we divided our time between the stormwater drains and the quarry at the edge of town, and before long, our misfit status drew the attention of a new student.

Theo was built like a brick outhouse. He could easily have hung out with the footy kids, but for some reason he opted to join up with us. There was a rift between him and those other boys, a mystery that only deepened when I learned that Theo's bricklayer brother habitually drove to the front gates to pick him up. It didn't bother us, though. Having a tough friend was a godsend in that place.

By mid-year, Douglas arrived from Korea with his mother. At lunchtimes, we pitched in to help his English skills by instructing him on the local parlance. Within his first week, he mastered fuck off, ya dumb cunt and pull me dick, mate with passion. It was no surprise; he already spoke two other languages and claimed that after school, he wanted to study to become a doctor. Naturally, we subjected him to all sorts of vulgarity, as if it were a concession he’d have to pay for being in our presence.

'How's school today? my father asked blankly. 'Everything going good?'

Every night at the dinner table, he tendered these same questions, ticking off boxes as if I was one of the electrical units he inspected at his linesman's job. As long as I responded accordingly and there were no discernible faults, at least none that affected my day-to-day function, my father would resume his meal, occasionally recalling some bland anecdote about the day's shift or repeating something amusing that he heard on the truck radio, before surrendering to my mother's nightly staffroom gossip. The man would simply sit there, more or less petrifying as she regaled him with tales of management's lack of appreciation for her work and how her colleagues put in half the effort for twice the praise, and yet despite such disgruntlement, their highs and lows were gleefully unravelled, the affairs of these names without faces finding more air-time than anything else happening under our own roof. I didn't take it personally. They were overwhelmed by things they'd never understand, unlike myself, who could see that I didn't amount to much and didn't mind admitting it. As a result, I spent most of my time tucked away in my upstairs bedroom, sequestered from sight like some kind of belltower freak.

There isn’t much I can recall from this time other than being desperately unhappy. My skin not only affected my appearance but cast a shadow over my confidence. While others sought new opportunities and experiences, I possessed no such hopes and associated my future with a kind of spiritual destitution. Not merely disgusting, I felt condemned and all shapes of fears and anxieties germinated inside of me, the most agonising of which was that I would die a virgin.

It’s now plain to see why I chose to tell you this story in the form of a letter. While I wish to save you from any discomfort in admitting this to your face, I don’t doubt that a great deal of wincing will follow what I’m about to reveal next: that I possessed ravenous masturbatory urges. I turned up to class with textbooks pressed against my stiff cock, a distress the likes of which you’re doubtlessly familiar. I quickly learned that such difficulties could be avoided by indulging in an early morning wank, for blowing one’s load in the privacy of a locked cubicle can act as a deterrent against unwanted hard-ons, sometimes until as far as lunch time. Torment, it seems, is indistinguishable from yearning.

I was pathetic, a wandering indigent who accumulated the sights in the schoolyard for later consumption. There were the fuller, richer behinds and breasts of the seniors, their luscious forms sealed in the tantalising skin of blue polyester. The athletic girls with long, tanned legs, their gym shorts concealing the paradise between their thighs with scarcely more coverage than tissue paper. In the year above were three sneering sluts who smoked cigarettes behind the oval, their rule-flaunting make-up and short tartan skirts a beacon of negligence and availability. Yet of all my favourites, the one I treasured most was in my maths class.

Every Tuesday at period four, I sat in the back row, eager to catch a glimpse of Tanya Winton. Long locks of burgundy and brown regrowth spilled down the back of her white polo. It was a size too small and hugged her milky waist, that slim body lascivious beyond its years, namely for the laced g-string that reliably protruded from the hem of her tight pants. With the afternoon sun pouring through the windows, my swollen knob pressed against the steel frame of the desk, its cool impression sobering me in that stuffy room, the only thing holding me back from squirting in my trousers right then and there.

Taking those sights home with me, I played out fantasies in the privacy of my own head, dreaming of what it would be like to rub my boner between the firm warmth of Tanya’s arse cheeks. But such fantasies also aroused a cruel pain. I couldn’t escape the reality that I repulsed her and my mental enactments became scenes of bullheaded desperation. I envisioned myself pinning her to the floor, my greasy face catching the blows of her feet as she kicked her way to freedom, shattering my greasy nose with her kneecap as I dumped a thick puddle of sprog on her pulsating crotch.

It seemed my plight had no end. I disgusted myself and everyone around me. The muck of my mind was written all over my purulent face. At the very least, I had my friends. Our sorry secrets were the bond that held us together. We found ways to escape our stultifying lives and amuse ourselves in the possibilities of boredom until we stumbled into the weekend that unravelled it all.

It was Douglas’ birthday and on a warm spring Saturday, my mother dropped me off at his house; it was in the posh side of town, had a double garage and pool. The four of us changed into our board shorts and wandered the halls, peering into the many rooms, all of them empty, carpeted expanses that smelled of vanilla and sandalwood.

‘So your Mum got you in the divorce and your Dad got everything else,’ Nicholas quipped.

We had to explain the joke a few more times and when his shoulders slumped, it revealed a private sadness; that even in the most melancholy transformation of his life, Douglas still held out that his father would return.

‘My parents are split up too,’ Theo said, with a reassuring slap. ‘You get used to it and after a while, you don’t even think about it at all.’

Douglas’ mother ordered pizzas while we bombed into the pool. Every now and then I saw her through the kitchen windows, staring meditatively across the garden and sanitizing the room with a can of air freshener. When the food arrived, we sat in the sun and sang Happy Birthday over and over again until Douglas screamed at us to stop. We ate in silence, content in our knowledge that we’d located our new friend’s breaking point.

‘We got you something to celebrate,’ I said. ‘But we can’t give it to you here.’

Douglas nibbled on a slice, steeling himself for another prank. ‘You’re not going to fart on me again, are you?’

Nicholas tossed a crust into the garden. ‘Nah, we really do got a present, but you gotta come with us down to the park.’

We let the mystery linger as we traced our way through the streets, crossing the highway into Mindijch Park. Today you ride your bike around the trails there, but it was once a place that possessed an unpleasant reputation. Its footy ground was derelict and the electrical transmission lines were the only sign of human intervention. A man was fatally stabbed in the car park after a drug deal gone wrong and homeless drifters had begun migrating there in the warmer months. The previous year, some Year 8 boys started a bushfire and four fire trucks came to put out the blaze, narrowly preventing the park’s destruction. Naturally, it was a place we found fascinating.

In the grass under the pylons, Theo handed Douglas his present, a dusty chunk of marijuana. We watched impatiently as Nicholas tore up half the rolling papers until he’d finally engineered a joint that was somewhat smokeable. It travelled from hand to hand, each of us taking turns to inhale and splutter and when it arrived at the birthday boy, Douglas waved it away.

‘I don’t do that shit anymore.’

‘Whatever, pussy,’ Nicholas quipped. ‘This is electrifying shit.’

I watched an armada of cumulus clouds drift behind the wires. It wasn’t enough to feel far away from the world. I needed to feel good. Nicholas laid down beside me and the others followed suit.

‘Woah,’ he muttered.

‘You high?’ I asked.

‘I dunno.’

‘Theo, you feel anything?’

‘Yeah, I dunno. Maybe.’

Nicholas flicked the last of the joint away with a hiss of disappointment. ‘We need to smoke more. I wish we had more.’

It took weeks to coax Theo into searching his brother’s bedroom, while Nicholas gradually acquired all the other paraphernalia under his father’s nose. When everything fell into place, the experience turned out to be a resounding flop. It hurt. I’d hoped marijuana would become a new leisure, a numbing agent to quell my pitiful obsessions. Instead, life simply recommenced its familiar disappointments.

We wandered into the park as the sun inched away. Turning toward the wetlands, the trail opened up at a pungent billabong and we scaled the banks. Atop an earthy mound was a small tent, its fly sheet flapping lazily in the breeze. Damp clothes hung from a paperbark tree. Chilly air swept across the water and empty wrappers of noodles and potato chips scattered into the grass, their foil inlays glistening in the ebbing sun.

‘What the hell is this place?’ Theo wondered.

‘I think somebody lives here.’

‘Gross-arse place to live,’ Nicholas mumbled. ‘Stinks like a dead dog’s arsehole.’

Cigarette butts lay caked in the earth, their speckled yellow forms clinging to the mud. The air was thick with swamp bog and although the two were inseparable, I detected the vague pong of human excrement, seemingly confirmed by a shred of toilet paper caught in the reeds. Empty beer bottles lay around the charred remains of a campfire. A wooden stake protruded from the earth on which a pair of women’s briefs were proudly exhibited, the lavender satin caked with faeces and clotted blood. I was hostage to the whir of insects and the sick chill of the water. This encampment had played host to all kinds of sordid revelry, indulgences acted out for the needs of the most deplorable of participants. Possibilities played out before me in kaleidoscopic squalor and I was transfixed, for this was a place where even refuse sparkled.

Bark cracked under foot as someone limbered through the foliage. The cicadas fell silent. Brown hair clung to her shabby cardigan, from which protruded a pair of sagging breasts. She stepped closer, knotting a sarong around her rotund waist, concealing her cellulite riddled arse and muddy calves. The woman examined us feverishly, her eyes like black bolts that could both paralyse and entrance, the sort of gaze one would work vigorously to avoid. How long we stood there for, I can't be sure, but the spell broke when Nicholas edged away, hands raised in surrender.

‘We were just looking around,’ he stammered. ‘We didn’t mean to— we didn’t mean to—’

Her lips peeled apart. ‘Didn’t mean to what?’

Nicholas froze.

‘Well?’ she pressed. ‘Are you little faggots deaf or something?’

All I could hear was the pounding of my own heart. Then, in defiance or perhaps frustration, the woman hocked and spat onto the dirt. We bolted through the reeds and back onto the trail. The bush rang with our screams, soon giving way to laughter as we blazed our way across the park.

From that day onwards, Are you little faggots deaf or something? became a daily catchcry. Even Douglas got in on the joke, instantly dispersed as our whipping boy in favour of Nicholas. We marvelled at our trek into Mindijch Park, replaying it from every angle, never letting him forget that the sight of a naked hag had reduced him to tears.

As the days wore on, laughter gave way to curiosity and during lunchtime, we exchanged hushed theories about who she was. Theo entertained the notion that she was an escaped mental patient hiding from capture. Douglas told us about the Hong Kong Grandma, an urban legend about an old crone who preys on children. Eager to reclaim his place in the food chain, Nicholas proposed that she was some kind of freak. ‘She’s a grub, probably born that way,’ he declared. ‘Living alone in the swamp because nobody would have a thing to do with a pig dog like that.’

All we could do was uselessly speculate, but at least now she had a name.

At the end of recess, discussions of Pig Dog fell wayside. In full view of the courtyard, Tanya Winton stood with her arms around the shoulders of Luke Carter, the star full forward in Year 10. His sturdy hands slipped down her waist and cupped her buttocks, which he gave a leisurely squeeze. It was as if time had stopped, the groping of that tender arse announcing a defiant mockery of all the hungry eyes present. The sight played itself on a permanent loop in my mind and for the rest of the afternoon, my thoughts swam in sadness.

After school, we spotted them again, this time pashing under the bus shelter. My heart pounded as Luke's hand cruised from Tanya's tiny tits to the waist of her pants, slipping his fingers under the elastic hem. Just when I thought I’d expire into a heap, she slapped it away and hurried into the queue as the bus arrived, an intoxicated smile spreading across her blushed face. Luke slouched over, stifling the erection that bulged through his grey shorts.

Theo gave Douglas a nudge and directed his attention towards the shelter. ‘See that guy there? Go up to him and say, nice sheila, mate, does she swallow?’

Douglas faltered. ‘Does she swallow? What is this one about?’

‘Don’t worry, mate. He’ll love it.’

Douglas duly took off towards the shelter. As the last of the students climbed aboard the bus, he tapped Luke on the shoulder. They were out of earshot, but we witnessed every crucial detail; Douglas’ innocent smile as he relayed the message, Luke’s hard scowl and the burly shove that sent Douglas careening into the shrubs. The bus pulled away, a throng of faces pressed against the windows as Luke planted a foot on the back of our friend’s head.

‘Should’ve known this was one of your freakshow friends, Theo,’ he jeered. ‘He wants to talk about swallowing loads but I figure your Dad would’ve schooled you on that already.’

Luke thrusted his crotch back and forth, his hands clasped around an invisible head which he pumped mockingly into his groin. He bent over and rubbed his fingers under Douglas' nose, then strutted off down the road.

Theo and I dusted Douglas off, and we sat on a bench in silence. Theo wedged his shoe into the ground, kicking out chunks of grass. ‘Maybe you two will hear some stories about me,’ he mumbled. ‘Before my parents split up, my Dad coached the under-15’s and some dumb cunt started a rumour that he got caught in the clubhouse showers with another player’s Dad.’

‘Is it true?’ I asked.

‘Fuck no. Even if it was, it wouldn’t matter because that shit don’t run in the family, okay?’

The streets emptied out and soon we were the only ones left. A ute rumbled up to the curb. Theo threw his bag into the tray and faced me one last time. ‘If you tell anyone what I told you, I’ll cave your putrid face in. And if anybody asks, I had a girlfriend at my old school.’ Theo climbed into the cabin. The ute circled back and vanished down the road, the growl of its engine carrying across the air long after it had disappeared.

A solemn desperation followed me all the way home. When I examined my face in the bathroom, there was new excrescence; a yellow pustule engorged beneath my eyebrow. I felt helpless to the things I couldn’t possess and no matter how hard I searched, I couldn't locate a path to freedom.

Over dinner, my father seemed to inspect me from the corner of his eye. He looked like he wanted to say something, but as my mother commenced her evening rambles, he reached for his glass of wine. I couldn't believe that he let her prattle on the way she did, sucking the air from the room with dramatic re-enactments of some colleague's petty insolence, blathering on and on until she'd tired herself out and plonk herself down in front of the TV, by which stage the poor man was grateful to wash dishes, if just for a moment of reprieve.

Under the sheets, I perused a mental menu of girls who’d elicited my excitement in the yard. There was the petite form of Kim Wong, the star of my maths class, who could very easily turn her attention from quadratic equations to glorious debasement. In Phys-Ed, Cassie Maxwell’s dick-sucking lips would smash local records and win her trophies in every heat. Then there were all of Tanya’s friends, each with their own well-developed attractions. It was inconceivable to me that they could exist side-by-side without devouring one another in a pit of grinding thighs and exploratory tongues. These were wonderful images but had to be used in moderation, lest their hold diminish under constant usage.

In such times, I found solace in considering the plain or ugly girls. I liked to give myself lurid tests to find out just how low I’d be willing to go. Jess Stone stunk like a wet dog but packed a pair of tits bigger than any I’d ever witnessed. Chelsea Martin was vaguely cute but her acne was almost as bad as mine. Lazy-eyed Anita Francis appeared to be borderline retarded but seemed like the sort of girl who’d be up for anything. Then, as effortlessly as could be, my thoughts drifted to Pig Dog.

I pictured her walking barefoot around the billabong, rotund body bent across the fire, tending to a boiling pot of noodles. While I lay in bed, indulging in fantasy, she was merely a few kilometres away, shrouded from the outside world. Miraculously, my cock grew even stiffer and I had a giddy realisation; that I could walk into Mindijch Park to satisfy whatever needs I could possibly conceive of and my actions would remain unknown beyond the bog and the reeds. Without warning, I blew a load all over myself, cold come trickling across my nipples as I fell into a long and marvellous sleep.

In the morning, my fantasy shivered through my guts. I battled persistent boners throughout class and by the time recess arrived, I had an insatiable need to make this dream a reality. ‘We should go back to Mindijch Park,’ I told the boys. ‘Get high, like, for real this time.’ Just like that, the ball was rolling.

‘Hell yeah, we could even swing by Pigger’s camp and say g’day,’ Nicholas said.

‘My bro just scored more weed,’ Theo announced, ‘And this time I know where it’s hid.’

Douglas’ chuckle turned into a feigned laughter, one that deflected a private thrill. As we laid out plans, the excitement grew and I suspected that my private make-believe was not an isolated incident. Our first visit to the wetlands had delighted us, but the next would require something much more potent. While we were too reluctant to speak our needs aloud, the group's intentions were abundantly clear, that we were going to put ourselves in a situation where anything could happen.

What I’m about to tell you may unsettle you. If you need a break — or wish to apply your ointment — now would be the time. It’s important that you give me your utmost attention and read what I have to say with a certain understanding. What is currently happening to your body and mind mirrors what happened to my own, but these changes aren't quite as common as you might be disposed to think. Some boys are not at all like the others and with this in mind, I ask you to repeat this tale to no one, not to your closest friends and especially not your mother, for this is my deepest secret.

The following Saturday, we gathered at my house and after telling my father that we were going to see a movie, we commenced our walk to Mindijch Park. The sun had already fallen behind a layer of cloud and the gravel trail was empty save for a middle-aged couple walking a pair of Schnauzers. They eyed us suspiciously as we threw our bikes under the powerlines, but we paid them no mind and filed into the bushes.

The swamp's gurglings drew us deeper into the dark. Nicholas scratched about in the mud, picking stones from the dirt. When the billabong came within sight, he hurled one, the missile sailing into the foliage. He immediately threw another, this one landing near a paperbark tree. A pair of birds dashed across the water in a fluttered panic and took flight, pitching in different directions.

A small fire had been lit at the campsite, its nauseating light spilling across the black water. Nicholas gave me a nudge and pointed at a looming shadow. It was Pig Dog, her heavy presence fouler than I’d dared to remember.

Who’s been chucking rocks at me?’

Nicholas honed in on her. ‘We’re just mucking around. Can’t you take a joke?’

‘So that’s what you boys came down here for? To be dickheads?’

‘Nah, we just came to smoke a little weed, yeah? Smoke weed and hang out.’

The fire crackled, the frogs bonked.

‘What you got?’ she asked.

Theo reached into his hoodie and produced a joint, raising it in offering. It was a wonky trumpet with strands of tobacco protruding from one end.

Pig Dog snorted. ‘Got more?’

He considered this, rummaged around in his back pocket and produced a sandwich bag packed with marijuana. Nicholas gasped at the sight of it as Pig Dog jostled through the scrub and snatched it up. She turned the bag over, raised it to her nose and inhaled. Satisfied, she trundled back to the fire. It appeared that our arrival had been accepted.

We approached the camp site, each of us taking a seat around the fire. I was assailed by a pungent dampness. A smack of urine, dirt and general ripeness whirled around me, emanating from Pig Dog’s hair and skin. My nostrils curled and I rested my nose on my hand, trembling with a curious combination of repulsion and exhilaration.

Pig Dog tore apart the bud with her parched fingers, fashioning a pair of rolling papers together. Nicholas chuckled in awe as she filled them generously, rolling up a spliff some four inches long, the end almost as wide as a five cent piece.

‘Sick, that’s one fat doobie,’ he said.

We all nodded in agreement as Pig Dog placed the spliff in the corner of her mouth. She took a chunk of wood from the fire and raised it to her lips, igniting it against the glowing embers. After several long drags — really, they were more like gulps — she tossed the plank into the flames. Hot grains scattered into the air as she sucked on the joint one last time, exhaling a spectral plume of smoke. Pig Dog held the spliff out indifferently. At last, it was our turn.

Theo went first. Pinching the spliff between his thumb and index finger, he took several long sucks, eagerly mimicking the blasé tokes witnessed moments prior. He was racked by a fit of coughs.

‘This is strong,’ he croaked, wiping his eyes. ‘Strong, strong shit.’

Nicholas was next. He started with caution but retched and spat into the fire. After two more attempts, he passed the spliff to me. I inhaled delicately. The smoke was hot and sour and in the battle to hold it down, I came very close to throwing up. Pig Dog heaped a pile of twigs onto the fire as the spliff traded hands, arriving at Douglas, who inspected it tentatively.

‘Smoke it, bitch,’ Theo drawled.

‘Yeah, smoke it, pin dick,’ Nicholas added. ‘Pretend it’s homework.’

‘Oh, come on, get off his case,’ I mumbled, perhaps a little too loudly.

It was as if I'd heard my voice played back on a tape recorder. Why did I sound so silly, so high-pitched? The others glared, their expressions unsettling. I had the overwhelming feeling that this moment was unfolding in a distant time or place that had nothing to do with who or whatever I was. Nicholas slapped my shoulder.

‘Damn, dude. We're baked!'

A mischievous giggle broke out, soaring into laughter. When I could no longer articulate what we were laughing about, it all became even funnier and we cried hysterically. Whenever the group settled, someone started up again and quite some time of drooling, knee-slapping laughter had passed before we mellowed to the lonely snaps of the fire.

The spliff made its return to Pig Dog, who inspected the butt and flicked it away with a sniff. She surveyed each of us over the flames and settled her eyes on Nicholas. ‘Pull down your pants.'

A twig popped and Nicholas jolted. Pins and needles numbed my face. Our laughter stirred up again or perhaps it was only its memory echoing through the empty shell of my head.

‘Well? Are you deaf? Or just a little faggot?’

‘What, do you— You’re joking, right?’

‘Do I look like I’m joking? Pull down your pants.’

A tremor rocked Nicholas’ hands, working its way up his body and into his chin. He leaned back, unbuckled his belt and lowered his jeans to his knees.

‘And the rest.’

Thumbs hooked beneath the elastic, Nicholas slowly lowered his briefs. Pig Dog leapt onto all fours, eclipsing the warmth of the fire with her damp wretchedness. She snatched his jeans and jocks, ripping them down his ankles. With another fierce tug, everything was shorn off, sending his sneakers toppling into the dirt. Pig Dog buried her head between his legs.

The pounding of my own heart was the only reminder that I was alive, every beat resetting my self-awareness, every second beat scrubbing it away again. Pig Dog’s face joggled side to side, sucking and slurping. Nicholas jammed his eyes shut and groaned, cupping his hands over his ears. An upturned shoe singed, its laminate side bubbling as Pig Dog’s head bobbed faster and faster until she let out a wet pucker. Nicholas tensed and rolled onto his side in a quivering heap.

Pig Dog rose with a contented puff, a bead of milky saliva rolling between her breasts and over the rippled blubber of her drooping belly. ‘Who’s next?’ Douglas buried his face in his hands and she turned her attention to Theo. ‘You?’ She sucked her thumb thoughtfully before glancing at me. ‘Or maybe you?’

A belt buckle clinked. Theo was already on his feet, kicking off his shoes and jeans. Pig Dog wiped her chin off with the back of her hand, then faltered. She untied her sarong and kicked it away with her huge feet, lowering herself into a squat.

‘Maybe both of you at the same time.’

Pig Dog snatched Theo’s ankles with a grunt, felling him into the dirt. She crawled backwards, closing in on me. I pulled off my tracksuit pants and underwear as she glanced over her shoulder with a coy chuckle. I laid back in the mud, hands pressed into my sides and watched her backside close in on me, unsure whether to keep my eyes open or closed, for what I saw was more vile than anything I’d witnessed in my tiny life.

Her grey anus puckered and gasped atop an enormous thicket of hair, the wiry follicles swarming around a pretzel of flesh. Hot steam rose from her vulva, its encrusted surface smoothing out as beads of moisture dripped from her gaping grey cunt. White pustules rose from the flesh like tiny deciduous teeth. There came a smell so resolutely nauseating that I retched, inspiring prismatic visions of nature’s blunders; living membranes dripping with excretions, eggs that bore sour, hairy embryos, the cold hollows of neglected infections. Yet as that enormous backside closed in, I felt a twitch of intrigue that grew by the second — I’d become aroused.

Pig Dog busied herself with Theo, resuming her ravenous chokes. She lowered herself onto me and within seconds, I was electrified. A warm slop swallowed up my knob. I instinctively thrust upwards and my fears were overcome by a monomaniacal drive to pound, and pound I did. Flailing in the dirt, I verged upon a rabid perfection. My hands clenched, balling grit in my palms as I submitted my final pump. Pig Dog gagged with pleasure as something fetid trickled down my inner thighs and a new lightness came over my body, sending me slithering back into the earth. She peeled herself away, clunge exhaling heavy vapour, and lurched to her feet. Night air brushed over my oozing body, a sensation so magnificent that I swept my arms through the dirt, raking my fingers through the filth, wallowing in a new unity with all things nocturnal.

Something squawked across the billabong. Pig Dog lunged into the darkness, feet sploshing through the shallows. Theo rose onto his elbows. Nicholas peered through the crack in his hands. Something tumbled through the water and a garbled voice pleaded. Pig Dog trundled back into the glittering light, towing an ankle in one hand. Douglas’ wet body dragged feebly behind her, his wet clothes caked with grit. She dropped his leg and went to work on his pants and jumper.

‘Please, I want to go home, I want to go home.’ The words gasped out like a mantra, the urgency rising as his soiled clothes were flung into bushes. ‘Please, I want to— GO HOME I WANT TO GO HOME I WANT TO GO HOME I WANT TO—’

Pig Dog angled herself over Douglas’ shivering body, settling a foot on either side of his head. She bent her knees and squatted, muffling his cries with her rotten crotch. She arched over and slurped up his flaccid cock and balls, pinning his skinny ankles down in the dirt. He squirmed under her weight, gagging and spluttering, the rest of us watching in stoned silence. The fire dwindled, an icy lethargy falling over us as Pig Dog despairingly rubbed herself to climax against Douglas’ face.

It took several muddled passes of the trail before we found our way out of the wetlands. A silver dawn loomed overhead, daring us to say something out loud. We cycled over the highway and into the quiet avenues, parting ways as each of us made his way home. When I slipped through the front door, my head was filled with tinnitus’ guilty screech. The stink of my clothes intruded upon the aroma of potpourri and last night’s dinner. My father's work boots had been placed in the foyer and a clean pair of blue and orange overalls were draped over the laundry door. As he readied for his shift, I hid myself under the dining room table and waited for him to leave. But no matter how experienced a boy is in sneaking around, no amount of grubbery goes unnoticed, for even the slightest trace of stink is enough to stop a father in his footsteps and fill him with apprehension.

Yes, there was now something very different about me. My face bore new ruddy lumps, craters had drained and scabbed over and a shiny half-sphere fattened on the bridge of my nose, but that was no surprise. There was something new, however, something in the mirror that I'd never seen before. The boy staring back wore a look of dopey delight, as though he were a defecating feral that had been captured mid-grunt.

No arrangement of words could describe just how happy I was that Sunday. I wandered the neighbourhood in a contented haze and when I passed Douglas’ house, I didn’t think twice about walking across the lawn and knocking on the door. I could’ve sworn I saw the ghostly silhouette of his mother drift past the curtains of an upstairs window, but after calling out, all I heard was the distant drone of a lawnmower.

I walked through the school gates with a spring in my step. I couldn’t wait to find my friends. There was much to talk about and I trembled throughout the morning periods in anticipation of recess. Shortly after the bell, boys surged through the locker bay. The crowd jeered as a pair of brawny bodies rolled across the cement. One rose quicker than the other, the sleeve of his white polo torn at the hem; the elbow gave a fierce jab, and something cracked. The spectators fell silent. Theo stared down at the crumbled heap at his feet. Blood poured from Luke Baker's nose and he didn't seem to have the slightest idea of where he was.

For the next two periods, everyone raved about the fight. Teachers struggled to keep the class focused and the last half of English Lit was more or less jettisoned. Theo was escorted to the head office by a pair of male teachers, someone said, and apparently Luke had been put in the back of an ambulance. Mr Kenneally weaved through the chatter, handing out homework, and paused at my desk to ask if everything was all right with my friends. ‘Is there anything you want to talk about? I was just told that Douglas Choi was disenrolled this morning.’

My friends were dropping like flies and I suspected that it had something to do with the strangeness in the air. Interest in the fight fell to something else. Students had begun to exchange whispers in the corridors or glare at me through classroom windows. Even some of the teachers seemed to double-take when I walked through the door. These weren't the usual looks of revulsion, but something much more suffocating.

It wasn't until lunchtime that I found Nicholas skulking in an empty corner of the yard.  ‘It stings when I piss,’ he said. ‘Does it, like— does it do that for you?’ A pair of crows perched on a nearby bin, clucking inquisitively as they fossicked through the litter, tossing out wrappers in search of some illusive morsel. I had no idea what he meant and stared wordlessly at the black scorch on the side of his runner.

That night, my mother resumed her babbling reports over the stove as my father nursed a beer at the dinner table. There was something of a sparkle in his eyes and as I laid out the cutlery, he nodded for me to join him.

'How was that movie the other night?' he murmured. 'Or did you boys end up finding something better to amuse yourselves with?'

The poor man's situation was so pitiful that he thought he could find refuge in my own. Surely he could see that my prospects for teenage mischief were at a bar so much lower than anyone else's son. I supposed that somewhere in his absent-minded existence, there was a sliver of encouragement in his words and for that I should bear some gratitude. After all, we weren't strangers, but father and son and probably shared much more in common than we could ever really know.

I locked my bedroom door behind me and dropped my trousers, giving my prong a vicious crank in lament for the days between the sombre now and my next foray into the wetlands. The skin peeled back over crisp flakes, permitting the sticky nub to breathe. Something was wrong, something didn't smell right. I yanked it, ignoring the weird needling. A sad orgasm fizzled as my urethra coughed up a nutty green paste. Eradicating pain and confusion the only way I knew how, I climbed into bed and buried myself under the covers. Maybe, like the common cold, it would fix itself. Maybe it was just a stupid virus and would simply go away.

By morning recess, fluid was saturating my underwear, dick palling with a curdling tang in the toilet cubicle. I snuck into mathematics early and shuffled into the back row, wincing as something drizzled under my crack. I reached my fingers inside and they came back coated in gunk, so I wiped it onto the chair in front of me. Students started filing inside and Tanya was the last to arrive. She slipped into her seat, utterly clueless that she'd planted her arse down in the cold wad of my discharge. After class, I followed her out the door and watched the congealed drip waggle from one of her cheeks as she walked across the courtyard. Tanya brushed a hand over her backside and suddenly stopped. Febrile confusion came over her as she gave her fingers a sniff, then bolted in the direction of the toilet block.

'Is everything alright?' my father later asked me. 'It seems like something's bothering you.'

You've heard me repeat the same question over dinner and seeing you clench up in your seat like that reminds me of myself. After all, what could a son possibly say? Even if my father heard the truth from my own rotten mouth, how could he possibly respond to such agonizing worries? No, you didn't catch it on a toilet seat, but we both know that, kiddo. No, it's not  stress-related, although we're certainly all prone to such conditions. But is it hereditary? That one's a lot more difficult to answer.

I explained that I was coming down with a fever and excused myself from the dinner table. You know what it's like; I've seen you scurry away, unable to resist the urge to put as much space as possible between you and the rest of the world. And you no doubt know the dread — don't you? — of the agonizing removal of your trousers and the fear of what you might find beneath them. It's a mortification that propels you into the stratosphere. One cannot easily draw breath when you realise that disease has found you; the first sight of sores ripening around your knob is nauseating. I had clusters of them bubbling up my shaft, the cool draft only encouraging its hardening, blinding me with pain. The inflammation clawed at my naval, as if allured by the foulness on my face, a pilgrimage of coalescing diseases.

In the morning, my mother seemed to think my illness was feigned, so desperate were my pleas to take the day off. Quickly consumed by the house's silence, I felt myself being drawn back to Mindijch Park. The sickness that coursed between my legs and mind had a source, of that I was sure. I wasn't in search of a discovery as much as a confirmation, and meandered around the parched oval and car park, instinct guiding my reconnaissance through the littered desire lines and onto the blue gravel track beneath the pylons where the truck was parked. The water birds clucked and warbled as I stared at the vehicle's empty cabin, their calls cloaking the sullying taking place in their domain.

Through the shrubs I crawled, into the muddy dips and debris, until I heard the slapping skin. His blue and orange overalls were flayed around his feet, one bare knee in the dirt, the other propped upright as he mounted her spotted rump. It was frenzied; Pig Dog's head craned upward, bellows quivering rhythmically as the man pounded away. When it was over, he wiped himself off and staggered to his feet. Pig Dog turned, her face half-printed in mud, mumbling as a plastic shopping bag was dumped nearby. She rifled through it, popped a plastic wrapper and shovelled fist-fulls of corn chips into her mouth. My father plodded away, buttoning up his overalls, then paused woozily at the water's edge, where he buckled and spewed. Pig Dog rolled onto her back and ripped open her shawl, exposing a tit to the midday sun. The truck engine rumbled to life in the distance, lagging through the bush until the wounded chirps of birds returned.

My son, I will spare you the humiliation of having to recall your own actions. I'm already too aware of the things you've been seeing and doing. Should you want to run and find her, I certainly won't put a stop to it. But if there was one thing I wish I knew then that I know now, it's that this world has a place for even its most repellent. The force that drives us back into the park is one of innate guidance and just as the plover migrates north and the salmon swims upstream, we both find ourselves plunging into Pig Dog's holes. There is no explanation for these things; why the skin of a woman has little on that of a wetlands shoat or why the acts that sicken us most will always beckon our return. Yet our scourge is a lineage like any other. To touch your sores is to witness it's lore, to trace one's self through time, from body to body, through the centuries of ravaging and rape, kingdoms and conquests and back to the very dawn of deviancy. And unlike the other fathers of this world, there's something this one can tell his son with pride—

I'm here for you always.

Your loving Dad.

Alan Crowther is a writer from Melbourne, Australia.
IG: @desoltionultras