Sorry, Anais Nin.


By Katzmarek.


Author’s Note:
This is loosely based on my real life experiences. For those who need to search for the character of the 
author in the story, perhaps I can offer a clue. I am male. For those who are still in the dark, I’ve ridden 
motorbikes for about 30 years. Should any further clues be necessary I would suggest applying for a job as 
Bush’s senior Middle East advisor.
Naturally things have been chopped and changed and made-up, to protect the guilty and to make a good 
story.
I don’t think the bike was around when the events took place, around 1973. It probably was a Yamaha 
TX650, for those who care about such things……. The Katz.





My family came to the same Motor Camp every summer holidays. Every year since I can remember. We 
had a caravan that we kept there for a small yearly rental.


The camp adjoined the beach. It was set under palm trees that gave the campers some shelter from the hot 
summer sun.


The beach was set in a small bay that was a popular recreational fishing spot. There was also wind surfing, 
boating, water skiing, all available from the beach concessionaires. A real family holiday spot.


I had just turned 17 that summer, my sister an annoying 13. My dad ran the family business, a wholesalers, 
taking over from my grandfather.


I guess you could say I had a silver spoon in my mouth, but I never thought of myself as rich. We lived in a 
good suburb and my sister and I both went to private girl’s schools. All my friends went to the same school 
so I guess I never really met anyone that wasn’t well off. 


 I was going to do my final year, next year, then it was on to University. I wanted to do Math’s but dad 
wanted me to do Accounting or Law.


Anyway, we were in the camp store one-day, buying some stuff for dinner, when this rumbling sound 
comes down the drive. I look out the door and I see this big motorcycle arrive. It was piled up so high with 
camping equipment that the rider had difficulty dragging it onto the center stand.


The rider was tall and kind of skinny and, as he took off his helmet, had long straggly blond hair. His face 
was decorated with a moustache and goatee and he was dressed, head to toe, in black leather that was dusty 
and flecked with squashed flying insects.


The girl behind the counter looked apprehensive as he strode through the door. A cigarette dangled unlit 
from the biker’s lips.
“I’m sorry, you can’t smoke in here,” the girl said nervously.
“It’s not lit,” the guy replies, matter of factly.
“Well, um, what can I do for you”? The girl asked, going through the practiced routine.


“Find me my tent site,” he suggested, smiling. It was quite a cute smile I thought at the time but maybe I’m 
looking back with rose-tinted specs. It wasn’t nasty, I mean.


“We can’t… I mean… there’s no vacancies,” the girl said. Now I knew that was crap, They hadn’t even 
started using the backfield yet.
“But I’ve booked, prepaid,” he said, “look here’s the form you sent me,” he took out a piece of paper.
“Dad!” the girl called towards the back.


Mr. Winter, the camp owner came out from the back of the store.
“Sorry mister, no vacancies,” he said straight away.
“Dad!” his daughter said, “he has a reservation, he’s pre-booked… and paid”


Mr. Winter scrutinized the paper and scratched his head.
“We don’t usually have motorbikes at the camp,” he said, “you’ll have to leave it outside.”
“Where does it say that on the contract?” 
“It doesn’t… but.”


So they argued back and forth and eventually Mr. Winter agreed he could stay but that he would have to 
push the bike to the tent site.
“If you’d give me a hand,” the biker said, “It’s soft sand all the way and the bike probably weighs about 
400 Kg’s or more.”


Mr. Winter gave in and the biker was allowed to ride it to the campsite. He stood outside, just daring him to 
rev it up or something. 


Later my dad said there would be trouble because this was a family camp and they shouldn’t let in those 
people. 


I was getting fed-up with my dad’s attitude and sarcastically asked him,
“What people do you mean, dad, Jews, Arabs or poor people”? Dad stormed off in a huff.


The next day I accidentally (really) found myself walking past where the tenters camped. The biker was 
sitting under a tree in T-shirt and trunks, reading.
“What are you reading”? I found my-self asking.
“Anais Nin,” he replied.
“Who”?


I must have sat there by the tree with him for hours just listening to him describing various books and 
authors. But I don’t remember much of what he said. I remember the way his eyes sparkled when he 
described something, and the way his whole face lit up when he smiled at something funny.


I do remember that he was studying for his Ph.D. at V.U.W. That he’d written a book of poetry a couple of 
years ago and that he earned a bit of money doing a column in an Aussie Motorcycling magazine. And I 
remember his beautiful baritone singing of Irish folk songs,
‘I wish that we were geese’
‘So we all could live in peace’
‘Oh the taties they are small, over here’
And.
‘O’ bean a ti cen muirt sin ort’
And.
‘Nil sen la’.
Hmm, maybe I remember more than I thought.


Later, we ended up sitting on the beach watching the sun go down. The surfcasters were out and a few 
groups were barbecuing sausages and steaks. The briny scent of the ocean was mixed with the smells of 
burning charcoal and burning meat. I knew I had to go back to the caravan, I was late for dinner and my 
parents would be out looking but I didn’t want to go.


It was such a magical moment in time, the cooling sea breeze fanned my thin top, but I never felt cold. I 
can’t remember him draping the jacket around my shoulders, only the smell of the leather and the faint 
whiff of old tobacco smoke. The cold zipper lay across my chest, right on my nipple in fact, making it 
tingle.


I felt his arm around me, nestling me against his shoulder. My hair mingled with his, now freshly combed. 
He laid his cheek on my head, his hand stroked the side of my face. 


I didn’t feel nervous at all, funny that, only contentment. He was so good to be with, so relaxed, charming 
and funny.


Just then I heard my father calling. I quickly shed the jacket and ran off towards the voice.
“Where the hell have you been, Sharon, we’ve been looking for you everywhere,” he said angrily as I made 
some excuse and dumbly followed him back to the caravan.


After a cold dinner we watched the TV for a while. I was bored and restless. I could hear my destiny calling 
like some Ban Sibh from the hills. Drawing me by its unseen thread.


“I’m going for a walk along the beach,” I announced.
“What! At this time,” said dad.
“I just want to be alone for a while,” I told him.
“Are you alright…” he started to say but mum shushed him.
“She’s growing up dear,” she said knowingly. Bless you mum.


I made my way straight for the tents. His Tilly shone through the tent’s fabric so I knew he was still awake. 
I called softly and was answered by a shuffling movement inside. 


Eventually the tent fly was unzipped and he poked his head outside. He pulled the flap aside to make room 
and I crawled inside. 


By the light of the Tilly I saw that he was dressed only in his underpants. His sleeping bag was thrown 
aside and he crawled back into it. Wordlessly he extended his arm and motioned me to slip in next to him. 
There was not much room on the stretcher for two, but I’m only small and with a bit of shuffling about we 
got reasonably comfortable.


I was dressed in shorts and T-shirt. I laid my head on his chest and, to keep from falling off the stretcher, I 
draped my leg over his. His hair tickled the inside of my leg from calf to thigh and felt funny, at first.


We lay there for a while not doing anything. I was just listening to his breathing and feeling his chest rise 
and fall. His hand was running through my hair, his fingertips stroking the side of my face.


My little breasts were all squashed against his torso, his hip- bone pushed in against my crotch. Every little 
movement his body made caused a little jolt of excitement. Slowly, achingly slowly he bent his head and 
brushed my lips with his mouth. I smiled up at him and moved my face for some more. Very soon we were 
kissing for real.


He reached up and turned down the valve on the Tilly. I was alarmed as the light dimmed to a faint glow, 
but he said,
“We don’t want to give the camp a show, do we.”


Then I realized that anyone could see us in shadow through the tent fabric. It would have been like 
watching a screen puppet show. I was suddenly very embarrassed but he said it was all right, no one can 
see in anymore. We giggled at the thought of all these people sitting around watching couples in their tents, 
making out.


When we settled down again I was lying more on my back and he was on his side. His left arm was under 
my shoulders and his right was brushing away my hair in preparation for another kiss. This time his leg was 
across mine, his crotch pushing against my hip.


As he kissed me his leg moved up and down the front of my thighs. His free hand roamed around my T-
shirt and came to rest alongside my left breast. A finger began to caress the side of my breast as our kissing 
got more passionate. 


His tongue explored my mouth. It tasted my lips and teeth and the tip of my tongue. He tasted and teased 
and tempted me, all at once. His tongue asked me how far I wanted to go with this man. Did I want to give 
up my virginity? Did I want to seal a spiritual bond with the physical act of union?


I didn’t know where he was coming from, what he was feeling. Was I to be conquered and notched up as 
‘un victoire’? To be a footnote in the next article in ‘Oz Bike’ about how he had this great ride on the 
Yamaha XV1100, oh and then there was this ‘chick’. I wasn’t going to be bragged about at the next club 
meeting.


As he bends to kiss me again I gently push his chin away. His eyes ask me ‘what’s the matter’. 
“Where is this going”? I managed to respond to his unspoken query.
“Does the explorer know what his destination is”? I thought that was corny.


“I can’t do this,” I told him, “I have to go.” I thought he would plead for me to stay but he didn’t. Instead 
he just shrugged his shoulders and looked sadly at me.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “will you be alright? You’re so beautiful…”


I nearly melted then, but I felt that I was right. It was too rushed, too soon.
“I’m sorry too,” I said and scampered.


Back at the caravan I made an excuse and went to bed. I slept under the awning with my sister while my 
parents took the double bed inside. They liked their ‘privacy’. As I lay in my sleeping bag, listening to my 
sister’s shallow sleep breathing, I remembered all the feelings and sensations inside that tent.


I remembered his body draped around me, his soft murmuring, and his sweet kissing. I remembered the 
sensations he left behind, every time his body moved. I also remembered the warm pipe of his penis, 
pressed against my hip and the moistening between my legs. 


My nipples wanted to be touched and sucked by him, but I wouldn’t let him. I wondered if he had been 
quicker, more urgent, would I have given myself over to the moment and let him take me?


I ran the scenario over in my head again, but this time he was more demanding.
 ‘He pulls up my T-shirt and fastens his mouth to my bra-less nipples. His mouth works them so they are 
stiff and aching. He pulls out his cock and pushes my hand onto it, forcing me to move it up and down.’


‘His hand massages the front of my shorts before undoing them and moving inside, under my panties. I 
help him pull them off and then his fingers are working in and out of my vagina. My hips are bucking 
against his fingers, willing them to go deeper, willing him to rub my clitoris.’


‘’But he wants to fuck me properly and then he’s between my legs and his penis is laying on top of my slit, 
sliding towards my opening’


But it didn’t get there because I came too soon, bucking and moaning and hoping my sister didn’t wake up. 
The dream snapped off before I went ‘all the way’. My fingers had worked too efficiently for me to 
conclude the scenario.


It took many agonizing and internal debates before I made the decision to go back. I slipped on my shorts 
and carefully snuck out of the awning. The light was off when I reached his tent and I called softly. After a 
while I heard a sleepy voice from inside ask, 
“Who’s there”?
“Me,” I answered.


He pulled back the flap and I squeezed in. With the Tilly off, the moonlight made a strange blue glow 
inside the tent. Everything was in monochrome, like those old televisions.


He had this quizzical smile on his face. He knew what I was there for. He lay back in his sleeping bag with 
his back resting on his bike pack. His chest was bare. He had his hands behind his head. Smug bastard!


As if to seal the deal I pulled up my T-shirt, wrestling it over my head in the confined space of the tent. He 
reached out and touched my arms then traced my body up over my shoulders and down my chest.


I shivered at the touch, and continued to shiver as his fingertips found my hardening nipples. They ached.  I 
sucked in my breath at the sensation and at the same time released a flood of desire from deep within my 
womb.


My shorts were hardly off before I fell into his waiting arms. This time the kissing was full of ardor and 
urgency that left both of us gasping for breath. When he pulled aside the sleeping bag I saw that he was 
completely naked, his penis already hard and erect.
“Wait.” 
‘What for,’ I thought, ‘what’s wrong’.


But all he does is reach into his wallet for a condom,
“Got to be careful,” He said.
“Oh… yeah,” I said, stupidly. Protection had never occurred to me, now that was scary!


His fingers slipped into my panties, over my bottom. They explored over my cheeks and along the cleft of 
my ass. We squirmed together as if for our very survival and all the time there was that hard prong. It 
jabbed me in the belly, thighs and between my legs, now moist with lubrication.


‘It’s going to happen,’ I thought as he gently eased me over onto my back and nestled himself between my 
legs. ‘It’s finally going to happen’.



 
The End





 




