100 Octane 06


By Katzmarek


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Author's note.


This is a work of fiction. It may not be used for profit without the
author's express permission in writing.


If you're looking for wall to wall sex then I'd suggest you don't
bother reading this. I *can* promise you an interesting story with
the occasional spell of passion, however. The story is slow, but does
heat up in later chapters.


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(Part 06)


I scoop myself out a little hollow in the dune and watch the sparks from the fire drift lazily up into the windless night. A surfer boy is poking it idly with a stick, can of beer in his hand. His skinny blond companion in a bikini top and wrap-around skirt joins him, putting her arm around his waist. Two couples are sitting cross-legged in the sand playing cards by the fire light.


Shades tries to engage me in conversation, his speech is sprinkled with surfer-slang and youth-speak. I'm not being very co-operative, I just want to relax and watch the fire.


"Y'surf?" he asks.


"A little," I reply.


"Y'shoulda been here yesterday, 15's... 50 break... max out, man... way cool!"


I nod a reply, not really understanding a word.


"Y'gotta an ole' man?"


I shake my head and he slides a little closer. One of the girls comes over and proffers a smoking joint at me. The sweet smoke assails my nostrils.


"Wanna hit?" she says.


I take it absently and take a cautious drag on the marijuana. It dries my throat and feels like a layer of ash has been deposited on my tongue and tonsils. Coughing, I hand it back to the girl who passes it to Shades.


"Skanky weed, eh?" the girl says, "Troy's had it for months... forgot where he put it," she giggles.


She wanders back to her partner. Impossibly thin, her long legs poke out from her flappy shorts like tent poles as she swings her girl's bottom from side to side.


"Bella's cool, eh?" Shades says, as we watch her retreat to the fire.


A few minutes later I feel a little languid buzz from the dope. Shades is sitting close to me, he puts his arm around my shoulder and gently draws my head against his. This closeness feels good, I roll my head slightly feeling the texture of his hair.


"You're a cool chick," he whispers.


His body's adolescent thin with just a hint of what might become good muscle development in his upper torso. His face is a little prickly, with the beginnings of some face hair. 'God,' I think, 'this guy's so young!'


As his hand begins to wander down my arm, I snap back to reality.


"How old are you Shades?" I ask him.


"Why?" he replies defensively.


"13? 14?" I suggest.


"No!" he snaps back adamantly.


"So, how old are you then?"


"Does age matter?"


"Yes! Tell me?"


"He's 14," one of his companions calls out, laughing.


"Am not, Dunger," he yells back.


"You bloody are, Shades," Bella chips in, "you're one class below Cassie and she's just had her 15th!"


I straighten up, dislodging his arm. Shades grabs a handful of tussock grass from the sand dune and rips it out, throwing it away in disgust. He bows his head in a sulk.


"So do all you guys go to the same school?" I ask them.


They nod, while 'my guy' looks at the sand in front of him.


"Riverton High School," Bella tells me, "we've just broken up."


Shades looks crestfallen, like a kid who's just lost his pet puppy. His surfer-posturing act has now fallen away to reveal the child underneath. I rub his back maternally, feeling the bumps of his spine. 


"Thanks for inviting me to join you," I tell him, "it's very flattering. I'll give you a bit of free advice though," I continue, dropping my voice, "don't be in such a hurry... get to know someone first and..." I lean next to his ear, "I'm not going to be 'scored' with, understand?"


He nods, dejected. I take him by the face and give him a big sloppy kiss.


"Take care," I tell him.


He looks at me with a startled expression as I get up and leave.


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When I get back to the tent, I realise I have another 'sulker' on my hands. Simon's sitting by the dying BBQ watching the embers fade to black. He looks up anxiously as I approach.


"Helene... there you are... I thought... look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean... I mean... I didn't know that..." he babbles, clearly agitated.


Sighing, I put up my hands.


"Slow down Simon," I urge him, "just bloody chill, ok?"


I sit next to him, put my arm over his shoulder and give him a rub.


"Have we got any dinner left? I've got the munchies."


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"I don't have any room in my life for a relationship right now," I'm telling Simon as we sit together consuming the last of the dinner. "It wouldn't be fair on the guy, being away for so long. For ten months of the year I'm based in the UK."


"I understand," he replies, somewhat unconvincingly. "Love, it doesn't take those things into consideration."


"Love, Simon? Are you saying you love me?"


He nods slowly, looking straight ahead.


"How the hell do you know that after two weeks?" I tell him, "Have you seen me in my bitchy mood? Will you make me laugh when I'm shitty with everybody, or run for cover like my brothers? Will you understand when I want to be alone? Or, like tonight, mope around feeling sorry for yourself? I think you'd be like a little pet lamb, following me around and waiting to be patted. I don't need that in my life, Simon."


I see anger light up his eyes. His lip trembles as he tries to control himself. Trembling, he picks up a can of beer and puts it to his lips.


"Do you cut everyone down who tries to get close to you?" he asks eventually.


"Y'think that's what I do?" I ask him. "What else did Wolfie tell you?"


His anger is barely concealed. Each sentence seems to sting him. After a pause, he says,


"Why shouldn't I ask Wolfie about you? When you like someone, that's what you do, check them out."


"Yeah well, it sometimes feels to me like Wolfie's been briefing you on what to say and do. Y'know, he really doesn't know shit about me on the inside."


"No, he doesn't does he?" Simon mumbles, grinning to himself.


I rub his back.


"That's an improvement," I tell him, chuckling, "'Tuesday Afternoon,'? That was SO corny."


He starts to shake with laughter.


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The night is chilling down and it's no longer comfortable in our T-shirts and shorts. I suggest we retire to the tent and get into our sleeping bags. We each have our own collapsible stretchers and matching down bags, all care of Simon, who's a keen hiker.


I feel relaxed and sweet, probably a little of the after-effects of the dope and beer. Simon's paced himself well tonight, his eyes a lucid, his speech not slurred. Perhaps the episode at the bar that day was an aberration. His smile lights up his handsome face, boyish glee at some little anecdote he's relating. 'Maybe I could grow to love this man?' I think to myself.


I reach up and brush the side of his face with the back of my hand. His eyes close at the touch, he stops mid-sentence and turns to look at me. I lean across and kiss him on the mouth.


"Simon? I ask, "do you know the boy scout's motto?"


"Sure!" he looks puzzled, "be prepared."


"And are you?" I ask softly.


The light of understanding gradually washes over his soft face. He breaks out in a nervous smile, widening as he reads confirmation in my expression.


"Sure," he says, his voice trembling a little.


"Don't get your hopes up," I tell him, "just tonight... I want to be close to you... no promises, understand?"


He nods slowly as he fishes around in his bag.


"Understand, Simon!" I say emphatically.


"Yes, I understand, Helen," he replies evenly.


Out of his bag he retrieves a 24 pack of condoms.


"Jesus Christ, Simon," I laugh, "were you planning on getting any sleep?"


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The far off campfires of the surfers shine like sparks on the wall of the tent as I slip out of my sleeping-bag. Each ember is accompanied by a pink halo on the dayglo orange nylon.


Simon is gentle and worshipping. We spend a long time kissing and exploring that which is accessible. He adores me, that much is obvious. I sense it in his touch, his eyes and his lips. I feel it in the way his chest shudders as I explore the contours with my fingertips. He sighs and hums as I tentatively nibble his neck and earlobe. He's almost crying when I return to his mouth. His hands caress the small of my back, probing with his little finger a 1 inch band of bare flesh between my shirt and knickers.


This is how I want it. Not frantic and fumbling bent over a washroom basin. Not drunk as skunks and falling asleep. But like the whole world can take a day off and leave us alone for a few hours, a week even. Having my nipples licked by someone who I actually know the name of. Someone who doesn't see me as a piece of meat hanging there at his convenience.


When finally I maneuvre under him, raising my knees and inviting him to join together with me, I know I'm sharing something special. Something that I'll remember for the rest of my life. It's my first time, my 'real' first time. Everything up to now has been an adolescent fumble in a back seat.


Simon allows me to guide him with my hands. He's prepared to forgo some of his own sensations in pursuit of mine. When finally I relax, my own tears stain my face in the glow of the distant fires. I hold him as he lies exhausted on top of me.


We join together the stretchers, zip the two bags into a double and settle down in each other's arms. I revel in the cozyness of his body next to mine. He spoons me with an arm thrown over, lying idly on my sex. He rolls his chin against the back of my head, scoops up locks of my hair with his nose. Breathes in deeply the scent of my shampoo.


"Hey, Hardy!" I call.


He hums a query.


"Wipe that smug smirk off your face," I tell him. 


"Helene?" he replies after a long pause, "no!"


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We decide not to move on any further. Apart from the odd day trip, we stay at the camp, walk along the beach and ramble over the surrounding hills searching for that 'special' view of the ocean.


...And we make love, every chance we get.


Simon is a good salesman. He knows to be patient sometimes, let the punter feel the goods, make up their mind. He knows when to urge forward, hustle a little, when to back off and when to close the deal.


I've no doubt he loves me, I've no doubt too that I'm very fond of him. But love? I'm not sure I can reflect the utter devotion that Simon shines towards me.


Today I suggest we go riding up the coast a ways. Just to find out whether the beaches look any different further around. I venture that I give him a ride on the Ducati, tucked down on the back seat. The idea sounded much better than the reality and Simon shivers in fear on the back of my bike. There're pillion-riders and there're riders, usually you're either one or the other. I'd NEVER get on the back of ANYONE'S bike, you've got to hand it to Simon for giving it a try.


We even swap bikes for a day. Simon relishes the power and feel of the Ducati and is soon leaning in and out of the corners having the time of his life. I don't like cruiser bikes, never have. If you want to haul around your lounge suite, buy a limo and stay dry. The way I look at it, bikes should be lean and mean, not overweight and placid like the Guzzi.


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Our little dream fantasy has to come to an end. Simon needs to get back to work on Friday and I'm beginning to feel guilty about neglecting my family.


The weather remains clear and warm on the way back. The Ducati was obviously someone's baby once. It shows unmistaking signs of having had much love and care devoted to it. The bright gold bike is a head-turner too, I feed on the envious looks of other motorcyclists we pass along the way.


Too soon we pull into Karlie's driveway. It's late afternoon and he's already escaped the shop and burning some old paint off the farmhouse. He steps down from the ladder as Joan appears at the door, paintbrush in hand.


"Have you eaten?" she asks.


But in their eyes it's obvious that wasn't the question on their minds.


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Simon hovers between displays of outward affection towards me and tact. The rules between us are ill-formed, tentative. A little touch when no-one's looking, a fleeting eye contact, all the time believing Karlie and Joan could be completely fooled.


"So what happened?" Joan opens the inquisition.


"When?" I respond innocently.


"Don't beat around the bush," she says, "you know what I mean."


She has that old-fashioned, all-knowing look on her face.


After some relentless probing, we eventually have to come clean. 'Yes we had a great time,' and 'yes, Simon and I got on... quite well actually!'
Joan suggests Simon stay the night, but he demures, saying he needs to get himself ready for work tomorrow. I say goodbye to him while my hosts look on from the veranda. A little kiss and squeeze before he dons his helmet and starts the Guzzi. Will it stay the distance? How can it sustain itself over the next 10 months of absence? Above all, do I really want it to?


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I'm due to fly to Japan in 10 days. There, I'll get a look at the development machine for next season. My partner, whoever that turns out to be, and I will ride against each other. One on last season's machine, the other on the new one. Then there'll be another month of riding, suggestions, some tinkering and some more riding. Sometimes I'll be competing with the other riders from Yamaha's factory team. For the first time they are fielding two Japanese riders.  Yamaha's R and D technicians, meanwhile, will be studying the data and holding meetings with each other.


Apparently Rotol's are still negotiating with several parties for the other 'seat,' my teammate. Some names have been thrown up, only to be snapped up by other teams. Despite my hotline to the Rotol team's boss, I'm being kept completely in the dark.


With a steady influx of foreign riders to the MotoGP next year, and the consequent departure of some old faces, there's considerable interest in the make-up of the competition.


I call Rotol and ask if I can have a week off over Christmas. My agent Ian told me that it wasn't specifically spelt out in my contract and I'd need to prevail on their goodwill. There's no problem, it's a bit of a 'dead' time anyway, barring any late hitches with the bikes.


"So who's Giancarlo's replacement?" I ask.


"Still under negotiation," he explains.


"Any hints? Where're they from?"


"I'm sorry, there's no news yet," he tells me.


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I put all that behind me and concentrate on the rest of the time I have left with Simon. By mid-week I've practically moved into his apartment. I don't think Karlie minds all that much anyway, it gives him time to continue his renovations.


I lie-in while Simon prepares for work in the morning. He takes care with his appearance. Before he leaves for work, he brings me a mug of coffee and some cereal, accepts a kiss, and goes, smiling. During the morning, I visit some friends, or just go out on the Ducati. At noon sharp, I meet Simon for lunch, while Wolfie minds the showroom.


It's all very blissfully domestic and unreal to me. How long will it be before I start chomping on the bit, wanting to get away, do something else?
Until then, he shares with me his day at work, asks after mine, all very correct of him and very strange to me.


...And we make love, once, twice, more each day. It gets better and better as we learn about each other's responses. Sometimes on the floor, the TV forgotten, the bath or shower but mostly in Simon's double bed. He wants to do it first thing in the morning, I want to tear his clothes off when he gets home from work. In the end, we come to an arrangement, we do both!


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I'm due to leave early Monday morning. On Sunday evening I'll catch a commuter flight down to the city and book into a hotel for the night ready for a 6am departure. Simon wants to come with me and see me off, however I don't want an extended goodbye.


We have a big family midday meal on Saturday at Karlie's to which Simon is also invited. The conversation is stilted, Simon's depression infects the gathering, putting everyone on edge.


Wolfie's in a mood also. No doubt thinking Simon is another casualty of the wickedly self-centred Helene. Karlie and Joan struggle to make everything convivial, Ernie is in a world of his own grumbling that he never wants to replace another Vespa gear cable as long as he lives.


Simon and I are booked into the only decent restaurant in town for a last romantic candlelight dinner. This provides a good excuse to flee the tension at Karlie's.


Once home, we share a bath. It's what we call a 'bush bath,' set out the back shrouded by a trellis of ornamental creepers. Once filled, you place a tray of burning charcoal underneath and wait for the water to heat up. Simon's backyard is private and secluded, surrounded by a high hedge.


We soon dispense with clothes, except for our briefs. My nipples soon react to the slight breeze, illiciting a response from Simon's underwear. By the time the water has reached an acceptable temperature, we've teased each other to a smouldering lust. I insist on easing his straining briefs from over his burning poker. It stands proud and magnificent in front of my face.


The bath is narrow, making it difficult, though not impossible, to satisfy out mutual desire. Kneeling, facing each other, his kissing becomes frantic, his hands knead and stroke, he clings to me not wanting to let go. We leap out of the bath and lie down on the spread towels. There, with my feet locked behind his plunging body, he pounds me to higher and higher levels of carnal ecstasy. Lying, still joined, we feel the sun gradually leave our bodies. It's almost sundown before he releases me.


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The candles render a soft glow to Simon's beautiful face. His occasional futile attempts at smiling stands in sharp contrast to his moist, sad eyes. This is going to be harder then I thought to say good bye to this man. From the restaurant we walk slowly back in the night air, hand in hand not speaking. Simon strokes the back of my hand with his thumb. I try and remember all the little details and nuances of our last hours together.


I finally talk him out of coming down to the city. I tell him it will be too hard for me and he accepts it, eventually. He agrees for MY sake, in loving deference to MY feelings. I'll think I'll always remember that little sacrifice.


Sunday we spend mostly in bed, making love again, stumbling to the kitchen to feed our bodies, then back to bed again. We try to cram 9 months of desire into one day. In the afternoon Simon walks down to the supermarket to restock the condoms and brings me back French bread and camenbert. We eat our lunch in bed before starting on the fresh packet of rubbers.


At 4 Simon drives me to the aerodrome and I scramble onto the waiting Saab Commuter jet. Simon is still standing there as we circle to the south and on to the city.


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From Tokyo, I'm whisked straight to Kobe and into my hotel where I hang out the 'do not disturb' and sleep. The next morning Yamaha's minder arrives to take me to Kobeyashi, the R and D facility. It's immediately back into the whirlwind of meetings, hand-shaking and guided tours.


The next day, I'm able to check my Emails. Goodluck messages from friends, a JPG of my brothers and my little bike collection and several messages from Simon that I decide to read later when I'm alone.


The team manager of Rotols sees me that afternoon. He thought I'd be interested in the various signings going on around the MotoGP scene. Kevin Coburn is confirmed for the Honda factory. Kieran Ridgeway is going to Australia for Dunlop's Aussie counterpart. I think he deserves it. A young local, John Calcini has been chosen to inhabit Coburn's old seat at GoldWing Australia-Honda. He impressed at the GP by giving the Aussie Suzuki team a fright while riding a Ducati Superbike.


I read down the list of names, page after page of them. The Rotol man looks like the cat who's got the cream.


"We have a replacement for Giancarlo," he tells me, conspiratorially, "you know him I think, an Aussie."


I know straight away, something in his tone of voice. I think my life just got a whole lot more complicated.


"Steve Kelly," he continues, "once his leg mends in a couple of months, quite a coup, eh?"


My response is hardly one of unbridled joy and the Rotols man realises.


"Into the office here," he commands, "it looks like we need to discuss this."


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"A little fling, eh?" he's telling me later, " how little... is there any stress between you two?"


I have to come clean with all that went on between me and Steve. It's understood that he needs to know anything that could affect team morale.


"Riders falling in love with each other is not something I usually encounter all that much," he tells me, "but there was a time... Ahem... well we'd better not let that little thing get out," he smiles.


It's still pretty much a macho world, I understand what he means.


"Perhaps you can throw a leg over him now and then, to keep him happy," he jokes.


"Oh sure," I tell him sarcastically, "now THAT will go down well at home!"


"Well I can't buy him out of his contract at this stage, "who the hell do I replace him with?"


It's alright, Frank," I tell him, "I'll deal with it... somehow!"


"Just keep it off the track!"


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Back in my hotel, I check the messages from Simon. One takes ages to download. It's a string of pictures of him, taken with Wolfie's digicam, out the backyard where we'd made love so often, the bath. It's almost too much. There's a rendition of the Moody Blues' song, 'Tuesday Afternoon.' He swears it really IS his favourite song, but I still don't believe him.

A picture of him crosslegged by the bath, his brown eyes staring straight at the camera is my favourite and I do a hardcopy. I'll frame it for the wall of my house in Essex, England.


6 Weeks to go before Christmas and my promised week off. Sighing, I stare at his smouldering eyes on the paper. It's going to be a long 6 months.


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Robert visits me that night. I wake up in a cold sweat, the air zinging around me. I feel him in the room, his voice in my head. He calls my name softly, he's beside the bed. Blinking, I think I see his face, flickering on the bamboo screen.


His face dissolves to a blob of some reflection from the lights of the city. In it's place appears the sneering, scorning, resentful face of Kevin Coburn.


Is he my nemesis? Or my destiny?


I lie shivering in the humid tropical night until dawn sends welcoming relief through the curtains of the window.


Katzmarek (C)