Frankie Fey - 23. Wrestling - with Bodies and Ideas.

They parked with about fifty other cars in an unlit, weed-infested, partially sealed area next to the dull grey bulk of an old and decommissioned town-water reservoir. There were no lights or signs to indicate this wasn’t anything more than what it looked like. The elevated position provided a distant view of the city, and an unpleasantly close view of a Greyhound Track; lights blazing, loudspeakers blaring. Two scarred wooden doors about twenty metres apart had been fitted neatly into the side of the curved reservoir wall. Patrons were entering the one nearest the cars.

‘The performers’ entrance is round the other side.’ Massimo led the way around to a concrete shed built tight against the wall of the reservoir. Inside looked and smelled very clean, and was well ventilated. Nine naked men were sitting on wooden benches attached to three of the walls. Ten lockers lined the other. A sink bench in one corner had a boiler, a large teapot, cups, milk and a plate of sandwiches. The wrestlers were quietly chatting, rubbing oil, massaging joints. The atmosphere was calm but tense. Everyone greeted Massimo cordially, then returned to their meditation or however they prepared themselves for battle.

No one questioned Frankie's presence.

Massimo stripped and handed him a bottle of oil. ‘Not too much, I don’t want to glisten, just make it less easy for someone to maintain a grip.’

Frankie checked that the camera pinned to his T-shirt was connecting with the hard drive in his pocket, turned around slowly as if to stretch, then set to work. None of the wrestlers were conventionally handsome, but all looked clean and healthy; the sort of man you’d happily talk with at a party. Scars but no pimples, scabs or rashes. One broken nose. All were evenly tanned, lithe and powerful rather than heavy. Four had shaved their bodies, but the others were just trimmed like Massimo. As different from professional heavyweight TV wrestlers as a racer from a draught horse.

Massimo was looking at him. ‘Do they turn you on?’

‘They're not what I expected. They look like the sort of blokes you'd meet at work, in the pub, on the street… just healthier and more… more alive.’

Massimo nodded, pleased to have his opinion confirmed.

Indistinct male voices invaded the dressing room when the connecting door opened, and a fit, middle-aged man in a dark blue tracksuit came in with a clipboard and announced the order of fights and who’d be fighting whom. Gold or blue ankle bands were handed out to distinguish the wrestlers for the benefit of punters. Massimo would be third up, fighting a powerful looking Irishman with a shaved head.

‘The bloke with the clipboard is Jerry; the owner, manager, organiser, front of house, runs the bar and the betting, and is also a bloody good referee,’ Massimo explained. ‘The patrons don’t want any casual staff who might gossip, so he does everything himself and keeps the profits in his pocket.’

Jerry shook every wrestler’s hand as if he truly cared, told Frankie he was welcome to stand in the shadows beside the screen that concealed the wrestlers’ entrance and watch Massimo fight, as long as he was totally still and silent. But only that one fight! The slightest movement and Massimo would be fined a hundred dollars. Massimo agreed. When all wrestlers had received Jerry’s good wishes they followed him out to the ring. Frankie peered around the screen. The auditorium was in darkness; only the circular wrestling mat was bathed in what looked like warm, golden sunlight that splashed onto the feet of the nearest patrons, so close they could almost reach out and touch the athletes. The wrestlers were introduced, flexed their muscles for laughs, then all except the first two returned.

While cheers, shouts and applause accompanied the first bouts, Frankie remained behind the screen, holding his tiny camera just around the edge, rejoining Massimo before his fight. He was deep breathing.

‘It slows your heart rate,’ he said distractedly, before lapsing into silence like the others.

When it was Massimo’s turn, Frankie wished him luck, told him to be careful, then watched as the two men placed foreheads together and held a hand to the back of the other’s neck. From that moment he was transfixed by admiration. They twisted, pulled, pushed, fell, squeezed, lifted, tossed and generally worked each other over. It looked hard work and very dangerous. At the end of the second bout it seemed Massimo had lost. Frankie had no idea why. Both wrestlers stood, panting and sweating, nodded seriously at the applauding audience, then walked calmly back to the dressing room.

‘Fuck that was hard. I’m a wreck.’ Massimo sighed. ‘I'm getting too old for this game. Did you get some good footage?’

‘I sure hope so. The guys in the audience are really close, aren’t they?’

‘They can hear and smell our farts, look up our nostrils and deep into our arseholes.’

‘Charming. It’s a pity the stands are so dark, I don’t think the audience shots will be much use.’

‘Don’t underestimate Columbine, she’ll make it look like its daylight.’

When Massimo had recovered, Frankie said he was going to tell Jerry he was interested in wrestling for him, so would like to view the second half from the audience to get an idea of what he’d be letting himself in for, then he’d get better shots for the video.

‘You're mad!’ Massimo’s tone was brutal. ‘You’ve powerful shoulders and arms, but apart from that you're not heavy enough. I don’t trust Jerry not to make a fool of you. Don’t make up stupid stories. Just ask him!’

Annoyed by Massimo’s dismissive tone, when Jerry poked his head into the dressing room at the start of interval, Frankie asked if he could sit out front.

‘Why?’

‘Because I’d like to wrestle here one day and want to see how…’

‘Don’t be a fuckwit. If you think….’

‘Jerry!’ The agitated shout prevented further abuse. Jerry hurried across to a man in obvious pain. After a quick consultation, he spoke quietly to the silent wrestlers. ‘Ronnie’s Achilles tendon’s come adrift. We’ve called an ambulance. Who was he fighting next?’

‘Arthur.’

Jerry stood in the centre of the room and gazed around, frowning. He stopped with his gaze on Frankie, smiled unpleasantly and asked Massimo who his next opponent was.

‘Harry.’

Jerry’s smile grew along with Frankie’s nervousness. ‘Listen up everyone. The last thing we want is to cut the evening short along with your earnings, so as Massimo’s friend says he wants to wrestle, Harry will now fight Arthur in the final round, and Massimo will fight…what's your name?’

‘Frankie.’

‘Frankie. Now, here’s the clever bit. The punters won’t be happy paying big bucks to watch an amateur, so Frankie will sit in the audience after the break, pretending he’s paid to get in, and I’ll tell them there's been an accident, and ask if anyone wants to volunteer to take on Massimo. You, Frankie, will wave your hand and I’ll agree. You’ll be on fourth so you can watch the first three bouts from the stands to get an idea of what you’ll have to do. At the end of the third round I’ll call you down, then it’s up to you.’ He turned to Massimo. ‘Just don’t kill him. I'm not insured for that. As for you, Frankie, I want you to come across as an arrogant know-it-all so the audience is delighted when you lose. Got that? If you stuff up, then Massimo gets no pay for tonight. Now, get outside and come in through the front door so no one guesses it’s a set-up!

Frankie stared in horror at Massimo, who shook his head in despair.

‘You're going to have lots of bruises tomorrow. I’ll try to be easy on you, but if the audience suspects I’m being soft or that you're not what Jerry says you are, they’ll demand their money back. I did warn you. Now, get out there and take lots of videos and learn a few moves.

A minute later Frankie wandered in through the main door. Jerry, who was now behind the bar, looked up and asked how he’d enjoyed the first half.

‘Pretty good,’ Frankie replied, nodding as if he was a connoisseur, then stood gazing around as if day dreaming, while ensuring the camera saw as much as possible.

The auditorium was a real eye-opener in the light. About twelve metres in diameter with a dark blue, circular wrestling mat directly in front of the screen that concealed the wrestlers’ entrance. Three tiers of comfortable seats, the front row almost touching the mat, turned the space into an amphitheatre, giving every patron an excellent view. Air conditioning kept the place pleasantly fresh, and a small bar beneath the stands was well patronised. Jerry was serving drinks. The big surprise was the walls, which were covered by a large mural resembling a Douanier Rousseau painting. In the dim light of wall-bracket lamps shaped like flaming torches, he felt as if he was in a mysterious forest filled with smooth-trunked trees and large leafy plants, partially concealing furtive animal and human silhouettes. A large pale moon in an ominous evening sky created deep shadows. Painted mainly in shades of green with occasional tiny flickers of bright gold, red and blue, the effect was of a primeval space that was at once haunting and exciting. To sit in the stands watching powerful, naked men fighting in such an environment was going to be a memorable experience.

The patrons too were a surprise. Frankie counted sixty-two men aged from late twenties to late middle age. Neat, casual clothes as if they were going to the pub. Several were in suits. All looked like the average Australian male—pleasant, clean, ordinary and dull. Some were bearded, most clean-shaven. Slim, fat, stocky, athletic, blond, dark, mousy. None looked queer, gay or sleazy. Normal is the only word that described them. Obviously, Frankie decided, just as there’s no homosexual type, nor is there a nude-wrestling-aficionado type.

The lights flickered, warning patrons to take their seats. Jerry pointed to an empty place in the middle of the second row. ‘If your neighbour’s surprised, just say it’s a better view.

The neighbours didn’t seem to notice, so he sat, even more impressed at the ambience when the lights dimmed. The golden glow directed onto the mat from three concealed spotlights, splashed onto the mysterious forest scene and subtly enhanced the almost ceremonial display of strength and flexibility of the nine well proportioned men in the prime of strength and health, erections thrusting proudly as they stretched and laughed and displayed their muscles.

After announcing the opponents Jerry held up a hand for silence. ‘Gentlemen, as you will have noticed, we have no opponent for Massimo. That’s because Ron, who was to have fought him in the next round, has been taken to hospital with a torn tendon.’

Mutters of annoyance.

‘However… Several times over the years, arrogant young men have come up to me and said they thought the wrestlers were pussies, that they could demolish them if I would let them get in the ring. I've never taken up their offers, but as tonight we’re one man down, I wonder if there’s any young champ in the audience who thinks he could take on Massimo in the next round?’

‘Yeah! Yeah!’ Frankie shouted excitedly. ‘I’ll take him on. He got thrashed before, I can easily finish him off.’

Jeers, laughs, boos, ‘Shut up and sit down,’ echoed round the room.

Jerry raised a hand for silence. ‘Ok, here’s the choice, men; either I refund a tenth of your money to compensate, or we let this young man take on Massimo. Your choice. A refund or watch a braggart get hammered and fucked. Hands up for the refund.’

Not one hand was raised.

‘Good. What’s your name, champ?’

‘Frankie.’

‘Right, Frankie. Sit tight and say your prayers. You're on in the fourth round; we’ll call you down then. Ok, on with the show!

The older man next to Frankie patted him on the knee. ‘You're a brave fellow.’

While the six wrestlers in the first three bouts attempted to subdue each other, Frankie watched in mindless fear. The only thing he learned during the first fight was how to be a good loser by reluctantly accepting with courage and manly stoicism, being carried around, legs in the air, then forced to roll on his opponent’s condom before being thrust ignominiously to the ground and stabbed by the winner’s sacrificial ‘knife’. Afterwards, they left the stage with arms around each other’s shoulders, the best of manly friends, followed by the best of cheers.

Frankie could cope with that—he hoped. It was what was going to happen before the final humiliation that terrified him. But no matter what happened he was determined Jerry would not be able to complain about him!

The second and third fights passed in a blur of terrified incomprehension.

All too soon Jerry was standing in the centre of the mat with Massimo proudly erect beside him. ‘Ok, young man. Down you come.’

By the time Frankie was standing on the star in the centre of the rubber mat he was shaking. Massimo calmly removed his clothes for him, tossing them away with disdain. ‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered. ‘You'll be fine.’ He turned Frankie’s back to the audience, bent him over and rubbed a lot of oil into his anus to amuse them while an assistant secretly pressed the injection gun against his penis. There was no need for the audience to know how their heroes managed to stay erect. Then Massimo turned Frankie around and with a sneer slapped his cock, setting the audience roaring with laughter. The slapping, injection and irritation worked, and by the time the two warriors had their heads together, hands on shoulders, Frankie was ready. He looked down at the throbbing organ and suddenly felt powerful. He wouldn’t win, but he wouldn’t give in easily.

The bell tinkled and Massimo waited. From nerves Frankie dropped and grasped Massimo around the knees intending to hoist him high, but Massimo leaned over and grabbed Frankie under the armpits, flipped over his back, dragging Frankie with him to land with a bone jarring thump. From then on for Frankie it was merely a question of staying alive. No matter how he twisted, squeezed, grabbed at arms and legs, he always ended up in an embarrassing position, legs spread so wide he thought they’d tear off, back bent at an impossible angle. For what seemed an hour Frankie did his best, but when the bell sounded his legs were on Massimo’s shoulders and both shoulder blades flat on the mat.

Dazed, he struggled to his feet having experienced the longest three minutes of his life. And then it all began again! Massimo played with him so cleverly that the audience didn’t guess he wasn’t really trying and wasn’t hurting his opponent much. He made Frankie appear not a total loser, but still a total amateur, and the bruises and almost dislocated sockets were real! And then he was swung over Massimo’s shoulder, landed on his face, and before he could recover Massimo flipped him over and sat on his chest, pressing both shoulder blades into the mat.

Massimo got up, laughing, and Jerry tapped Frankie on the shoulder. The moment of truth had arrived. Too numbed to care, he was carried around with all his bits exposed, then ‘wheelbarrowed’ to the front of the mat, had his thighs spread, and Massimo plunged his sword.

The pain was nothing compared to all his bruises, joints and muscles. He was hardly aware of the thrusting, slamming and the massive heave that lifted his hands off the mat when Massimo climaxed with a guttural growl.

And then he was pulled to his feet and Massimo whispered, ‘Grin like a brave man who’s been fucked painfully but won’t admit it!’

The audience was appeased and Jerry sneered, ‘Not the hero you thought you were, are you?’

Frankie shook his head, shrugged and nodded, unsmiling.

‘Ok, back to your seat, there’s a real fight on next.’

‘My clothes…’

‘Get them later,’ Jerry snapped as the last two wrestlers made their appearance, posturing and displaying like a pair of randy peacocks.

Frankie was too exhausted to feel shy about pushing past patrons to get to his seat. Most just grinned. The elderly man on his right shook his hand and nodded approval. The teenager on his left was unpleasant. ‘You looked a fucking dick out there,’ he said loudly.

Frankie sank into his seat and silently agreed. Despite his aching body he enjoyed the last fights, finally beginning to understand what was going on and how he could have done better. He hoped Massimo had been able to video this one.

Three minutes after the mat emptied, the auditorium was also empty and Frankie joined Massimo in the dressing room. Jerry was handing out envelopes to the remaining wrestlers, who gave Frankie an amused cheer. Jerry slapped him on the shoulder, ‘Thanks, Frankie. You saved the day. Are you two fuck buddies?’

‘Something like that.’

‘If you ever learn to wrestle, come and see me.’

‘I’ll do that.’ Frankie looked around for his gear.

‘I've got your clothes in here,’ Massimo pointed to his own small holdall. ‘You don’t need them. Let’s go.’

The car park was almost empty.

‘Want me to drive?’

Frankie ached so much he’d have welcomed it, but wasn’t going to admit it, so they drove away in silence, each wondering what the other was thinking. Massimo worried he’d been too hard on Frankie; Frankie worrying he'd looked stupid and useless. It was five minutes before either spoke.

‘I’m sorry for laying into you so roughly.’

‘It was necessary.’

‘No, I could have been easier, I was annoyed that you'd got yourself into that position and wanted to teach you a lesson.’

‘You did. Was I a total embarrassment?’

‘No. Obviously a total amateur, but a fighter.’

‘Were you ashamed to know me?’

‘Of course not. You acted the part brilliantly, and all the other wrestlers knew you'd never wrestled before and that Jerry had forced you into it by blackmailing me. So they were pretty damned impressed.’

Would he really have fined you so much?’

‘Yep. So thanks.’

A comfortable silence accompanied them home.

They slept late. Massimo jogged and Frankie staggered to the swimming hole where the cold water dragged blood to joints, stimulated movement and helped ease the aches.

Back at the house they downed a substantial breakfast, then as Prudence, Empirika and Harley had gone into town to buy supplies, they joined Columbine in the van where she had been looking at the videos.

They’re a mixed bunch, Frankie. Some are of the ceiling, others too dark, but others are superb. I can get an excellent idea of the place and most are useable. What a beautiful space from the audience’s perspective; those murals. It looks as if they're wrestling in an enchanted forest, yet it’s unfussy. Completely masculine. There's not a feminine element in any of the videos. And no women in the audience.’

Massimo barked a short laugh. ‘Every one of those men is escaping at least one female. If even one woman were present every man would leave immediately and never return. They'd feel violated. Men can only really enjoy themselves if they are not being seen, judged and criticised by females.’

Columbine nodded sadly. ‘I've never met a woman who can refrain from commenting on everyone around her—usually negatively.’ She cleared her throat. ‘The audience are not at all what I expected; they're so ordinary, just the normal couch potato. And the wrestlers! Such nice men! I hadn't realised how clogged my brain is with stereotypes. And the naked wrestling almost makes men in those singlet things seem perverted. Also the erections!’ She laughed. ‘You looked like gods.’

‘Were you shocked to see the losers getting fucked?’

‘No. It seemed a natural assertion of dominance. Lots of animals and birds do that. Bulls fuck each other for dominance. Roosters too. I was sorry to only have one video of you, though, Massimo. What happened during your second fight?’

‘Jerry, the boss, asked Frankie to do something for him, so you missed seeing me win.’

Frankie breathed a sigh of relief. One shame avoided.

‘What’ll we call the video?’ Columbine asked

‘How not to make a fool of yourself on the mat. Frankie’s up for it.’

‘As long as you don’t kill me.’

‘Why don’t you both have a bout now in the lounge while we’ve got the place to ourselves. I’d love to see you both wrestling—exactly like those men last night.’

‘Exactly?’

‘Yes.’

Massimo shrugged. ‘Ok. What about you, Frankie?’

Frankie frowned. ‘I guess so…’ He looked into Columbine’s eyes. ‘When you said exactly like last night, does that mean you want to see the looser get fucked?’

Columbine’s eyebrows rose in serene surprise. ‘But of course! Without that the fight says nothing about dominance and interaction between males.’ Her smile was that of an innocent child as she turned to her equipment. ‘I’ll close this down and meet you in the lounge in ten minutes.’

Frankie looked at Massimo expecting a protest, but he was already heading back to their bedroom.

Frankie ran after him. ‘Won’t it feel strange to fuck in front of your mother?’

‘She’s not my mother. You were Ok with it last night, what's changed?

‘She just wants a sexual thrill.’

‘So did those guys last night. I like being watched and thought you were the same. If you're worried about getting fucked, don’t be. I intend to lose.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she doesn't like me—none of us like each other. She wants me to move out but I need somewhere to stay, so I figure that it’ll make her so happy to see me get fucked she’ll get off my back for a bit.’

‘Ye gods! I thought you guys were one big happy family.’

‘Fuck no. Empirika hates me because I know she’s just using Prudence. Dad’s jealous of…. Columbine’s also jealous of me for… and I think they're all parasites. So are you on?’

Frankie nodded, Massimo picked up a timer, a bottle of oil and a foil-wrapped condom and as if hypnotised, Frankie followed him through to the lounge where Columbine had pushed carpets and chairs back to create a space. Two cameras sat on the floor and two were on tripods, all focussed on a chalk circle drawn on the floor. Columbine drew a dining room chair up to the edge of the circle and sat on it.

Massimo set the timer for three minutes and they faced each other, hands on shoulders, totally focussed. Ready for the slightest opening. In a blur of speed Frankie thrust an arm between Massimo’s legs and heaved him off balance. From then on he had the upper hand. Every time it seemed that Massimo would best him, he found an opening, grabbed the chance and escaped, pinning Massimo instead. It looked brutal and there was copious sweat but fewer bruises and less joint strain than the previous night. The three-minute bell sounded and they relaxed and paced around for a minute to recoup.

Columbine licked her lips and nodded.

In round two it seemed that neither could gain the advantage. Slippery from sweat, heaving, twisting, lifting, until with an almighty effort Frankie dropped onto Massimo’s chest, forcing his shoulders to the floor as the bell rang.

Facing Columbine, Massimo aroused Frankie, rolled the condom onto his erection, presented himself and stoically endured a deliberately brutal invasion from Frankie who needed to humiliate Massimo as payback for the humiliation of being allowed to win.

His mother laughed unpleasantly, snarling, ‘Fuck him hard, Frankie. Hurt him, Frankie.’

Frankie orgasmed, withdrew, and collapsed onto his back, staring in disgust at Columbine, whose eyes were glued to her son, also on his back, facing her with legs wide apart as he casually masturbated, staring expressionlessly into her eyes until she looked away.

*****

After dinner they sat and watched Columbine’s twenty-minute compilation of wrestling videos from the previous night, into which she had cleverly inserted the fight that afternoon, up to and including Massimo’s finale.

After a two second silence she said, ‘I’m going to make a longer version when I've edited the rest of Frankie’s videos.’

‘Most interesting, Columbine,’ Prudence said thoughtfully. ‘But I'm confused, while half the wrestling took place in that romantic forest scene, some seemed to be in this very room?’

‘A trick of the trade, Prudence,’ Columbine replied airily. ‘It’s amazing what you can do with digital images.’

‘Yeah, amazing,’ Harley sneered. ‘How much did you pay my son to lose, Frankie?’

Frankie had no idea how to react, so didn’t.

‘You looked good, Frankie,’ Empirika added. ‘Made me realise what a runt my half-brother is.’

Frankie cringed. Where was this going?

‘I prefer the setting in the first part, and the wrestlers in the second,’ Prudence said calmly as if nothing untoward was happening and she’d been watching a documentary about butterflies.

‘Thank you, Prudence,’ Massimo grinned while Frankie looked around in confusion.

‘Not much cum after all that wanking, half-brother,’ Empirika taunted.

‘Frankie’s been sucking him dry,’ Harley snarled.

‘I find the sheer primal energy and strength exciting to watch,’ Columbine stated as if defying disagreement. ‘I was transfixed.’

‘She should be,’ Massimo whispered to Frankie, ‘with a stake.’

‘And the other wrestlers all seemed so gentlemanly,’ she added.

‘Ha!’ Harley snorted. ‘They're not typical males. Ok. Enough crap. Is naked wrestling pornography? If it is we won’t continue with videos because I have decided porn is out. I took clips from fifty-eight Internet porn sites we trawled through recently, and they shocked me deeply. I’d like to know what you people think.’ He put another DVD in the player.

Laughs, guffaws and exclamations of incredulity soon gave way to yawns and serious concern for the well being of the actors.

‘That was not inspiring,’ Prudence said sadly at the end.

‘They're all the same.’ Empirika shook her head contemptuously. ‘Seen one seen ’em all.’

‘Yeah, two or three people meet, take off their clothes and fuck with varying degrees of athleticism.’

‘After first displaying all their sexy bits and pieces.’

‘With an average of only four camera angles and ninety percent genital close-ups,’ Massimo remarked. ‘Top, sides and below, depending of which gives the best view. Not what you'd call inventive or artistic.’

‘And not much scope for story-telling when you seldom see the rest of the body and the sole activity is full-on hard sex.’

‘Like the video of Massimo and me just before?’ Frankie asked innocently.

‘Yes and no.’ Prudence paused to organise her thoughts. ‘It was explicit, but it was part of a logical sequence of events. A wrestling bout is sort of a story, and Massimo wasn’t forced or in pain.’

‘Yes. That’s an important point,’ Columbine agreed. ‘Those girls’ vaginas must get incredibly sore and probably torn. One had three erect penises in it and another up her rectum.’

‘It’s as bad for the boys,’ Frankie said softly. ‘That girl had her arm in that bloke’s arse nearly up to the elbow. Her fingers must have been into his appendix. It’s insane. I've read about anal fissures and splitting and infections and…yuk!’

‘Why do they do it?’

‘For the money, or they're homeless and lonely, or they're into drugs and the producer supplies them with whatever they need for turning tricks.’

‘I've read the guys and girls doing the most dangerous and painful things are often stoned and don’t realise what’s happening. They can’t feel anything down there. It’s only afterwards that the pain gets to them, so they take more drugs and...’

‘Not to mention the shame. It’s not for nothing that so many porn actors suicide in their twenties.’

‘They’ve probably got permanently damaged genitals. Vaginal and anal muscles can only be stretched so far without rupturing. They probably leak from front and rear after a few years. Who’d want to marry or have a relationship with someone who was incontinent before they were thirty?’

‘I hope never to see another vagina or anus tortured by yet another gigantic cock ramming in and out. That girl with two penises in her mouth, two up her fanny and one in her backside couldn’t have been more than fifteen.’ Empirika shuddered. ‘Would you have done anything like that, Frankie if you’d been poor and lonely?’

‘You never know what you'd do if you were lonely, kept prisoner, tortured, starved, injected with drugs, promised a million bucks… I like to think I’d say no, but…’ Frankie fell silent, unaware of the tears running down his cheeks. ‘I just feel so sorry for the kids who've had a rotten childhood and evil parents. My father’s boyfriend’s a lawyer who spends most of his time in court trying to keep youths who've been abused, ill-treated, homeless, cheated… out of prison. It drains him sometimes. It’s so hopeless. The courts don’t care. The government doesn't care. Their parents and schoolteachers don’t care. The kids are left to get into trouble by doing whatever they can to keep alive, and are then punished for it.’

Silence.

‘So, are we all agreed? No porn?’

‘Depends on our definition of porn.’

‘What we’ve just seen!’

‘There’ll be nothing like that in the video of Rika making the sculpture of Frankie, or the wrestling.’

‘But there’s nudity.’

‘Naked’s not porn and neither’s an erection. It’s natural. What those people were doing is the opposite of natural. It’s evil. It’s depraved. The people who make them do it should be shot.’

‘Yet porn is the most popular thing on the Internet. What does that make most people?’

‘Sick. Mentally sick.’

‘More likely it’s just that they lack enough imagination or empathy to understand the cost to the actors of what they're doing.’

‘Hang on,’ Prudence said irritably. ‘Everyone keeps saying porn as if we all agree what it is. But do we? Was it porn when Frankie and I fucked in an abnormal way on stage?’

‘No, because no one got hurt.’

‘And it was artistic—part of a fun ballet.’

‘And it was amusing.’

‘And you were doing it for fun, not profit.’

‘Actually, it started as a scientific experiment; I wanted to see if I was fertile.’

‘And I wanted to know what it was like to fuck a female.’

‘Then why do it in front of one and a half thousand people?’

‘Because it was fun.’

‘You're exhibitionists.’

‘That's a word usually used for people who want to shock. We don’t. We want to do what you said we did… amuse, entertain artistically, have fun.’

‘So if the explicit depiction of strange sexual acts isn't porn, what is?’

‘It’s only porn if someone gets hurt, in the widest sense.’

‘Meaning?’

‘If it’s against their will, or they are hurt emotionally or physically, even if they’re doing it willingly, or there’s violence, or all those things.’

‘So, as we have no plans to do any of those things, Harley’s label is the only problem. We do what we intended, but don’t call it porn.’

‘What do we call it?’

‘Erotica.’

There was general agreement.

‘Okay, we intend to make short, entertaining visual erotic stories,’ Harley growled, ‘but I'm damned if I can think of a single story-line. Suggestions please!’

They pondered.

Suddenly Empirika asked, ‘Do you have loads of friends, Frankie?’

‘What? No. No. I don’t make friends easily. Don’t meet enough people I suppose.’

‘Have you tried the Internet?’

‘I don’t want a lot of friends, they'd make my life complicated. Anyway, few people tell the truth about themselves on the Internet.’

‘You're right. And if you're brave enough to meet them you're as likely to be mugged or cheated as befriended.’

‘You meet new friends through other friends,’ Columbine stated.

‘Like… I met you guys because I came to visit Prudence?’

‘And you also saved Ian and made it possible for me to buy his property and watch a video of you wrestling with Massimo. Everything we do has unexpected consequences. Meeting new people is just one of them.’ Prudence’s tone was impatient, almost accusing as if there was a message in her words that he was to dumb to understand. She was gazing intently at Frankie as if willing him to respond. He gazed around. The others looked equally mystified.

‘What do you mean, Prudence?’ he asked gently.

‘You implied that the Kwins and I are your friends. But how well do you know us?’

‘I… I only know what I've seen over the last few days.’

‘So you know nothing about us! Are we who we say we are?’ Her voice was taunting. ‘Before giving out your credit card details on line, what do you do?’

‘I check if the site’s a scam.’

‘What questions have you asked us to determine our bona fides?’

‘None… I just thought… but you're right. You and I never actually got to know each other more than superficially at university. Is it too late to discover if you’re all raving maniacs about to slice me up for dinner?’ He gazed around the room. No one was smiling.

‘Yes it is. But I've an idea that might help us understand each other better.’

‘Well, don’t keep us in suspension.’ Empirika’s sneering tone nullified the attempted joke.

Prudence sighed patiently. ‘I think we should each write a very short piece about one episode in our life that explains who we are, and read it out tomorrow night. A window to the real person. A secular confessional. Afterwards, Harley can turn them into videos if he wants. Well?

It was agreed that the idea had merit. They had nothing better to do. But it’d be hard to select one event. And how much should they write?

Prudence smiled bleakly. ‘Just jot down the bare bones to keep you on track when entertaining us.’

‘How long?’

‘Three minutes.’

‘Must they be completely true?’

‘I read somewhere that only five percent of most autobiographies is true. The point is the point, not the veracity of the details.’