Henry S

by Horror Sleaze Trash on January 10, 2012

Despite the sub Hugh Grant/Bob Hoskins accent Henry S was born
in Sydney but abducted to the UK where he studied Psychology at
Brookes College Oxford, while singing in a little known early 80’s punk
band called, rather appropriately, The Unknown.

He is the winner of ‘Poetry Idol 2011’ and has had his worked performed
in the 2011 Melbourne Festival as part of the Snatches program and
will shortly be published in the next Paradise Anthology of poetry. He
has also won several Melbourne poetry nights and was short listed for
a Poetry Centre/Relationships Australia anthology.

Hery titles himself as “a Punk Poet” and cites his greatest influences as
“Sir” Benny Hill.


On the way back from a dip into the murky waters of an “Aquarium”, where you see beautiful Balinese babes behind glass, green around the gills from the unforgiving fluorescent light, or something more sinister, we re-found Putri and her friend, sheltering in the shadows.

On the way I had committed to David that rather than vacillate further, I would “pop in for a quick one”. On his assurance that one of them was suitably busty for my particular predilections.

I faced her in the half light as we did the age old dance of “five hundred rupiah – no I always only pay one hundred and fifty – no you give me three hundred”. But there was already a difference from my previous experience in calculating Kuta.

The air was still. Putri was old, like me. Raddled and sad. But she knew how to hold my hands and arms, with her bigger, stronger, none girl arms.

Then I began to dream.

Putri ushered me away from the road into an enveloping vaginal darkness. A foliaged, overarched, stone strewn walk way.  Through creaking compounds policed by sinewy, sweat-shirted wraiths.

She linked her arm through mine, for all the universe like we were some debauched middle aged multi racial couple. I liked the silk of hers arms. And the certainty. And even the sadness. Then she ushered me through the Black Hole of Bali, into an abyss.  Is this the way I go, led like a lamb to a never-come-back-from Narnia Neverland.  An elephant’s graveyard for the curious sexual tourist.

She brings me to a hidden but vaulted empty abode. “You have condom”. But despite my surprisingly totem stiff lower member I am still stiff- upper lipped about “sexy massage only”.

When Putri disrobes, something changes. She is still a beautiful figurine but long and careworn away by the constant frictions of her profession. Her apparent bust sags south. Her tummy is dark coral formation cellulite.

But, as she gently coaxes me towards climax and I begin to wonder with there will ever be a “happy ending” for me, or whether the friction will simply infect me with whatever terminal melancholy ails her, something shifts.

I notice her neck. The infinite beauty of her so long, so uniformly perfect darkness-made-carnate hair. And I start to kiss her neck and her dejected nipples. And even the cat harshness of her tongue still hot with some internal youth. Even feeling the roughness of a scab and the hypodermic jab of contagious fear.

And I say with conviction. “You are SO beautiful”. And she says “No” with equal certainty.

And afterwards, she laughs. But not, as you might imagine in a hollow, hopeless way. More as if someone touched or at least amused. Despite themselves.

And gives me a hug. And it is a real hug not just a Balinese hug.

Two middle aged people falling into each other on a dirty bed, in the middle of an ancient, decrepit,  mystical, sickly, hidden place.

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