Guttural Symphony in Three Movements by Peter Mitchell
Guttural Symphony in Three Movements
Someone has gone mad. Berserk even. My new flat is completely white. From the highest rafter in the roof down to the lowest nailhead in the floor joists, it’s like a huge, huge monochromatic canvas: white, white & more white.
When I first saw it, I thought HMM. I was in two minds about it, you know, just not sure. Ambivalent, I think, is the word I’m looking for. Don’t get me wrong! I do like white for the interiors of flats and houses. It’s an easy colour to work with, easy to arrange furniture and wall hangings in a mosaic of decorative splendour.
This flat is bigger than my last one which was a two-room matchbox. It’s just behind the ABC in Darlinghurst & just down the road from where the girls work in St. Peter’s Lane. One of my friends, an Honorary Ancient from the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence* suggested I call my flat, The Convent of the Long White Veils. It has a truly poetic ring to it, don’t you think? I imagine longs veils of white chiffon and organza, hanging at oblique angles along the length of the walls. I see an open window, the iridescent blue of Sydney harbour a backdrop & a gentle breeze rustling the gauzy, shiny fabrics, creating a waterfall effect: rivulets of translucent material trickling down the monochrome walls.
I like my flat with a lived-in look as my mother described it. Not too much disorder, but enough order to get the balance just so. I like the religious connotations of the name too. It reminds me of the contemplative ambience in a thirteenth-century monastery.
The White Queen
I call the flat’s owner ‘The White Queen’. As you can imagine, he is obsessed with white. I’ve met him several times & on every occasion, he’s dressed completely in white: white linen trousers, oversized white cotton shirt & white espadrilles.
His obsession fascinates me. I’ve reflected several times about his fixation. What comes to mind is his fear of disorder, of keeping all aspects of his life clean and pure. Presumably, the origins of this are in the dim, distant past of his childhood. But that’s a misty path I’m not going down, so I don’t ask him any personal questions.
His other stylistic obsession is gold jewellery. There’s the obligatory gold chain worn around one wrist, a gold watch on the other and numerous bangles hugging his forearms. Each finger has a chunky gold ring on it & of course, there’s a gold chain around his neck. The first time I met him, I thought, Hmm style. A member of the Double Bay* jewellery set.
Another trait about The White Queen is he flaps his wrists all the time. Talk about making shapes in the air. I picture him now, mouth going ten-to-the-dozen, hands flying through the air like a flag flapping in a gusty wind and jewellery jingling-jangling up and down his arms.
The Painter in the White Overalls
A painter wearing white overalls arrives at my flat one morning. The White Queen hadn’t mentioned anything to me. The painter tells me he’s painting the flat white. Surprise, surprise!
As he stands at the door, explaining what he has to do, my eyes rove up and down his body. Hmm, I think, not too bad. Blue eyes: lively and talkative; sandy-coloured hair with wisps of grey in it; thick walrus-like mo and hairy forearms. At the same time, I have the distinct impression his eyes are doing exactly the same as mine. Mentally undressing me. Five minutes later, he says good-bye with a twinkle in his eyes.
An hour later, he returns, muttering something about measuring the walls. He marches right in as if he owns the place. Being the polite individual that I am, I ask him does he want a beer or cup of tea.
He says no to the beer and yes to the tea. He measures the lounge-room walls & strolls to the bedroom. From there, he yells something inaudible. I go to the door to find out what he’d said. As I walk in, he accidently loses his balance and falls onto the bed. He laughs nervously, says how comfortable it is and gives me the once over. Not the most original of approaches, I think, but hey, opportunity knocks.
Neighbours
Did I tell you about my neighbours? They’re a pair of clones* & live upstairs. They’re both hunks. When I first saw them, I couldn’t tell if they were twins or lovers. I looked from one to the other and back, several times.
I adore the shorter one. I have a deep and abiding attraction for him. He’s younger than his partner & with his dark hair, cropped mo and washboard stomach, I think he’s nine-and-a-half out of ten. I never give any man ten out of ten. With nine-and-a-half, there’s always room for improvement.
My stunning neighbours indulge in the annoying habit of fucking on the floor of their bedroom at five-thirty in the morning. Every morning. My bedroom is directly underneath theirs. Obviously they wake me up. So one morning, I banged on the roof with a broom handle during a passionate moment when their moans had reached fever pitch. The two of them swore & as I sat tee-heeing silently to myself, I heard the younger one curse, saying ‘That fuckin queen downstairs’. The next day, he & I had a screaming match in the foyer of our block of flats.
However, I admit that, at times, I find it very erotic, especially if I’m feeling horny. As I said, I hear them distinctly. What with the shorter one squealing for more and the older one shouting at him and slapping his arse. If they knew how much pleasure they give me, they’d spew, especially the younger one.
Crescendo
My painter-cum-fuckbuddy, Mike visits me every Friday night. On this Friday night, he’s too tired to fuck, so we postpone it till the morning.
Five-thirty chimes. With metronomic regularity, the two clones begin humping. We hear moans, groans & the creak of the bed. I turn to Mike & sigh heavily. He turns over, takes me in his arms and kisses me tenderly.
On the ledge outside the window, two pigeons land. They strut up & down, making coo-cooing & other appropriately pigeon-type noises. Outside, there are indigo storm clouds heavy with rain & lightening splits the sky.
Later, my legs are over Mike’s shoulders. He humps me harder & deeper & kisses me passionately, swirling his tongue all over my face, my imagination spins off to a continuum of red. I turn to the window & two pairs of beady, little eyes stare back at me. The pigeons are bonking too & regard me as a voyeur, as an invader of their personal space.
The clones are on the floor by now too. I hear the younger one squeal as the older one whispers hoarsely. Outside, lightening flashes silver-white making silhouettes of the surrounding buildings. This is surreal. The two clones shout & moan. Mike pumps away at my arse, making it feel like a furnace, his moans guttural. The two pigeons, well, while not quite making loud, guttural noises, are certainly causing a racket coo-cooing.
This is very symbolic. It’s the conjunction of sex & nature; it could even be Freudian.
Mike shouts in climax. Perspiration shines my skin as cum pearls my stomach. The clones cum too, joining in a guttural symphony. Shouts, moans, groans: man-noises floating through the air like notes of music.
Mike & I calm down. Drenched and spent. The pigeons fly off with satisfied expressions & we hear the creak of the bed as the clones climb into it. Outside drenching the air, silvery droplets fall, lightening the early, morning grey.
* ‘Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence’: an international order of (initially) gay male nuns, but more recently an international order of blessed nuns
* ‘Double Bay’: Double Bay is an upper middle class suburb in Sydney’s eastern suburbs;
*’clones’: clones were a stylised gay male look during the 1980s.
