Mellow Yellow Next Generation Ch. 02

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I dedicate this story and the next story in this series to the dear and wonderful Chinese woman who suggested the idea.

Pamela Poon loved Sydney as much as she hated Bummkrak, Qnsld. Perhaps it was the cosmopolitan nature of the city that allowed a Chinese teenager to feel at home. Definitely, the Queensland rednecks who still believed in the “Yellow Peril” did little to make Pamela Poon feel welcome in Bummkrak. Sydney’s openness, quirks and charms reminded Pamela of her native Hong Kong. Perhaps it was the thorough makeover Sydney received to host the Olympics. Perhaps it was because Sydney was her step-father’s name and a Chinese daughter always honours her parents, even adopted parents.

Today, Pamela Poon was not in love with Sydney, the city, as on other days. With her bus firmly entrenched in gridlock at a downtown intersection, Pamela resented Sydney’s traffic situation. Pamela muttered under her breath, employing an all-purpose Aussie curse:

“Bugga. I’m going to be late for Koo’s award. Oh, Bugga.”

Pamela disembarked from the bus, catching the next monorail to Darling Harbour. Darling Harbour was once a busy part of the Port of Sydney, shipping Australian wool to the mills of Lancashire. Now, Darling Harbour was an upscale tourist attraction, one feature of which was the Aboriginal Cultural Centre and Keeping Place. Pamela’s best friend at Bummkrak High, Allison Koowootha, would receive an award for her art today at the Cultural Centre.

Finding a seat at the back of the auditorium, Pamela listened politely as the pompous master of ceremonies droned on. “Pretentious arseholes come in all colours, black, white and yellow, I’m discovering,” Pamela thought. Finally, the master of ceremonies came to the moment she had come all the way across Sydney for.

“And now, I’m pleased to introduce our next honouree of this event, Miss Allison Koowootha. Allison, or ‘Koo’ as she signs her paintings, is this year’s Most Promising New Aboriginal Artist. Allison has pioneered, harumph, new erotic themes in our traditional Aboriginal art. It’s not a trend that I entirely approve of myself. As one of Australia’s most eminent art critics, I was appointed to the committee for this year’s awards. When Miss Koowootha’s work was considered for this award, it was I who noted the Chinese willies on the Aboriginal warriors. I maintained that willies coloured differently from the body constituted a discordant surrealistic element that could not be considered fine Aboriginal art. Notwithstanding such obvious defects, the other committee members (all women I might add) have overruled me. Allison Koowootha, please accept this honour on behalf of the Australian Aboriginal Artists Association.”

After the boring speeches had ended, Pamela and Allison walked to a restaurant in Sydney’s Chinatown, conveniently located near the Cultural Centre. The odd pair, consisting of a black Aboriginal woman towering over a petite Chinese woman, attracted many glances, not always approving, in Bummkrak, Qnsld. In Sydney, only the occasional male who developed a lust for non-European beauty gave Pamela and Allison a second glance.

Pamela hadn’t seen Allison in person since she left Bummkrak a year before to take her pre-med studies in Sydney. They made small talk over tea and dimsum snacks about inconsequential happenings to their families and friends in the past year. Finally, they came to the subject that inevitably takes over the conversation of twenty-something women; relationships. Pamela, out of respect that today was Allison’s day, let her friend discuss her relationship first. Pamela wasn’t the least bit surprised that a relationship developed between Allison and her brother Patrick. (Mellow Yellow Next Generation Ch. 1)

“I saw that one coming, Koo because I had a hand in it. The truth is that I wanted you to work at my mother’s restaurant so that you could meet Patrick. When I saw the spark between two of you, I used the excuse that I needed time to study so you two could be alone. I could have gotten into University without all that extra study time.”

“Pam, I’ve always thought that you’re quiet but very devious. I bet you’re into a relationship right now but you haven’t told anyone yet. Come on and spill the beans to Allison. We’re best buddies, aren’t we?”

“Actually, there is someone serious, Koo. I think I’ve found the one. He isn’t what I expected either and you’re right that I can’t tell anyone about him.”

“I love mysteries. Tell me how you hooked up with him and why all the mystery surrounding this relationship.”

“When I first came to the University. I started dating some of the guys but nothing serious ever developed. Actually, I got burned several times by guys. The students from Mainland China are either computer dorks or else they just want to marry a girl to get Australian citizenship. The white students think they’re so cool that any Chinese girl would be privileged to shag them. Really, I think that all Australian guys are bursa escort like the boys in Bummkrak. They’re in such a rush to get into your pants that they never chat a girl up or treat her right.”

Allison nodded her head knowingly. The two women just wanted to forget about the white guys in Bummkrak and Queensland in general. Allison asked: “He must be a black guy then?” If Pamela acquired an Aboriginal boyfriend, the four of them could chum around as couples.

“No, he’s white and Welsh, definitely not Australian. He’s older than me. Maybe that’s why I was attracted to him. I’ve always admired the way my stepfather treats my mother. Do you think it’s wrong to be hung up on older men?”

“Only if they’re not married as well as well as old. Omigod – tell me he’s not married.”

“Please, Koo, he’s just shacked up. But let me tell the story in my own way. He’s my English Literature 100 professor, Marcus Aurelius Studley-Moore, or Mark as I call him. Don’t look at me that way, Koo. Let me tell the story and perhaps you’ll understand. I met Mark at my first English class. To tell you the truth, Koo, I was sitting in my seat theoretically writing in my notebook but my eyes were off to the side looking at the bulge in the pants of the guy next to me. I was letting my imagination go and getting a bit horny when Mark’s opening remarks caught my ear. He stood on the podium as if he owned the lecture hall and all the audio-visual equipment. There was something so confident, something so fatherly in his words that I forgot about the guy next to me or any of the young guys around me. Mark was the only man who existed in the lecture hall from that moment on. When he spoke in his resonant Welsh accent, it was as if Richard Burton himself were giving the lecture. Yes, I was enthralled by the man but I considered him out of reach for a freshman.

As a good Chinese student, I decided to study my subject. I found his teaching schedule and tried to observe his habits and especially the women he consorted with. In order to observe him from afar, I used the binoculars issued to me in Ornithology 100 to spy on Professor Studley-Moore. I spent many hours at the top of the parkade watching the birds on the campus as well as peering through the window of Mark’s office. I never saw Mark do anything but work in his office. He never even put his hands in his pants to play with his willie, as Patrick tells me men do quite often.

In fact, Mark seemed to lead a most chaste, almost celibate life. He never spoke to a woman unless they were seated in his lecture room. He only associated with his male colleagues when he ate at the Faculty Club. From my perch, I could see him leave in his automobile, always alone. I had my doubts about Mark’s sexuality. Perhaps he was gay or perhaps he was impotent.

My doubts about his sexual orientation were dispelled in the lecture hall. Mark was teaching us about Thomas Hardy’s novel, ‘Jude the Obscure’. I was quite taken by the parallels between the class system in Victorian rural Dorset and the class system as practiced in Queensland today. I also identified Arabella Donn as one of those white bitches my Aunt Susan analyzed in her technical paper ‘Male Sexual Dysfunction Causal Sources (3): Emasculating Caucasian Females’. I also identified Sue Bridehead as Thomas Hardy’s attempt to portray an ideal Asian woman within the confining strictures of Victorian prejudice against ‘wogs’. Mark confirmed my analysis and casually mentioned that Hardy had modeled Arabella Donn on his own wife, Emily.

Only I could see that Mark identified himself with the character of Jude Fawley. Mark talked about Jude’s sexuality in a way that demonstrated that he longed for a satisfying relationship with a woman. No, Mark was not asexual or gay. He was a repressed man. My English professor was entrapped in a loveless relationship, as was Hardy’s character Jude, as was Hardy himself. In his lecture, what Mark said about Jude Fawley, I understood it to mean Marcus Studley-Moore. I was positive that Mark was crying for help when he mentioned that Henry Randolph Ash in the novel “Possession” was loosely based on Hardy and his life. Of course, the fictional Ash was also in a loveless relationship.

After the lecture, I asked Mark if he had any other material on Hardy’s private life that I could read. Mark seemed to be so pleased that a freshman took interest in his lecture.

‘It’s fortuitous that you asked, Miss Poon. I’ve nearly finished my doctoral research and I’ve made a first draft of my thesis: “Thomas Hardy and Florence Dugdale; Older Men who Chased Younger Women Amongst Victorian Literati.” Miss Poon, you’ve demonstrated such extraordinary enthusiasm for Victorian literature that I think I can ask you a favour. I’ll loan you my thesis if you could do some proofreading for me. Can you drop by my office after classes today and I’ll let you have a copy?’

Of course I said ‘Yes’, so I made my way over to the offices of the Faculty of Arts after class. bursa escort bayan The English Department listed all its faculty members on the door. There was Mark’s name: M. A. Studley-Moore M.A. I was about to ask the receptionist to tell Prof. Studley-Moore that Miss Poon wished to see him when this most hideous woman stormed out of an office clutching an envelope. She put the envelope somewhere inside her saggy bodice and then stopped to lecture the receptionist as if I didn’t exist.

‘I’ll be away for a fortnight. I’m going to New Zealand to lead a Greenpeace demonstration. Can you please provide him with an organic bran muffin and a hot cup of coffee every morning? Also, keep your hands off Marcus in my absence.’

Since I was apparently of no consequence to this ugly creature and she went on at length threatening the poor woman, I took the opportunity to look her over. She was overweight and her personal hygiene left much to be desired. She wore a dress that was far too short, exposing a vast expanse of thick thunder thighs. Her greying, greasy hair was tied at the back of her head in a frizzy bun. There were traces of a moustache growing on the upper lip that seemed to be frozen in a sneer. This ugly creature turned her back on both the receptionist and me, leaving a vast expanse of bum waddling out the door as her parting show. I asked the receptionist what that was all about and why her tone was so hostile.

‘That’s Professor Studley-Moore’s missus, Hellweg Gnerd. Insists on having a different name from the Prof. I’m not even sure that they’re married, but she acts as if she owns the man. She always comes in and nicks his pay packet when she goes off on one of her environmental causes. I think this time she’s demonstrating to get the Maoris to provide flying lessons to the kiwi birds. Look, if you’re here to see the Prof, I’ll see in fifteen minutes if he’s ready to see you.’

So, I was correct. Mark was in a relationship with an emasculating white bitch. The way she ignored me, I just knew that she was a racist as well. When I finally did see Mark, I could see he was still upset by his wife or whatever’s visit. In order to save face, I couldn’t let on that I knew what had caused his black mood. I took the disk with his thesis and listened patiently as he told me how to make notes for him.

For several nights, I devoured Mark’s thesis and tried to read between the lines. He had uncovered evidence of many affairs that Hardy had with younger women while married to the very nasty Emily. His second marriage to the mousy Florence Dugdale was only the culmination of Hardy’s search for young love that his unhappy marriage had deprived him of. Mark’s thesis described Emily Hardy in such devastating terms that it must be his own unhappy marriage that he was describing. How else could he so clearly describe a talentless woman disparaging the work of one of the masters of the English language, unless it had happened to himself? Did he identify with Thomas Hardy’s many conquests of younger women?

I finished proofreading Mark’s treatise on a Saturday afternoon and turned my mind towards improvements. What the work lacked was a climactic finish that captured the essence of an older man making love to a younger woman. He had to try and convey the excitement of a young woman as experienced, liver-spotted fingers played upon her body. The older man would teach the art of love, awakening the erogenous zones that had heretofore gone untouched.

I didn’t have a date that Saturday. What to do? My homework was finished as usual. I looked at the essay on my desk by Mark. Why should I sit at home? I decided to personally deliver my corrections and suggestions that very day. There aren’t many Studley-Moore’s in the telephone directory and the only Marcus Aurelius Studley-Moore lived in Effing, a middle-class suburb of Sydney.

So, I put my notes in my knapsack and hopped on the next CityRail train to Effing. Fortunately, Mark lives just a few blocks from Effing Station. So, I found myself looking over the hedge of a bungalow at the address I had written on a piece of paper. There was Mark on his knees, working with a trowel in a flower bed. He had his back to me and his cute buns were up in the air.

I so wanted to sneak up behind Mark and clasp his bum cheeks in my hands but my courage failed. I walked away, ashamed that I couldn’t speak to the object of my love. There was a store around the corner of the street where Mark lived. So, I went in to buy myself something to drink. Koo, I hope that you haven’t been drinking the tap water in Sydney. It’s full of some kind of nasty germ that gives you the runs. Nobody drinks tap water in this city.

I took some solace in a cold diet cola and sat down outside to have a drink. My hopes of meeting Mark privately had fizzled the same way the soft drink fizzled as I opened it. As I tilted my head back to empty the can, I saw out of the corner of my eye the same car that had been in Mark’s driveway. As the escort bursa car turned the corner, I could see Mark was driving and he was alone. I don’t know what got into me but I just had to go back to his house for another look.

I don’t think anyone saw me peering over the hedge at Mark’s bum. Definitely nobody saw me enter his yard the second time. It was supper time and the smell of lamb chops on backyard barbecues hung in the air. I cautiously approached the house through the garden. Perhaps the white bitch hadn’t left as promised. The garden had waratahs, bindi-eyes and bladderwort. That last plant reminded me that I hadn’t peed since I left the dorm and I just drank a large cola. What to do?

I was thinking of relieving myself behind the tool shed when I noticed that the patio door had been left ajar. I pushed the screen aside and entered the house. Koo, I have never been a burglar before but entering that house so clandestinely started a dribble of excitement down my legs. I don’t know if it was my full bladder or if I was becoming sexually aroused by my criminal act. My eyes were watering from the hydraulic pressure and my pussy was swollen from my newfound pleasure.

The bathroom was the first door down the hallway, fortunately. I put down the seat of the toilet, my first clue that Mark was abandoned and alone in the house. Hiking down my jeans and my panties, I peed buckets. I sat on the toilet thinking of the awful things that that white bitch had done to Mark while unconsciously unrolling the toilet paper to wipe myself. As I swiped the paper up my pussy, my clit was swollen and sensitive. I became even more horny from sitting on the same toilet seat as Mark. I dropped the paper into the bowl without ceremony and began to stroke my pussy and stimulate my clit. My hand moved more and more rapidly up and down my slot. My head banged on the potted plant on the cover of the toilet tank. I did myself right there in Mark’s bathroom in Mark’s house. I came whilst perched on the rim of the toilet.

I hiked up my panties and jeans and straightened my tank top. I decided to take a quick look at the rest of the house. The kitchen was littered with empty pizza cartons and containers of takeout Chinese food. Sometime, I decided I must cook him a real Chinese meal. Mark couldn’t cook for himself and I doubted if that woman ever made a decent meal for him when she wasn’t gallivanting on her environmental adventures. It would serve her right if an attentive young Chinese woman stole Mark’s affections.

Then I went into Mark’s study and realized that I could be in a lot of trouble if anyone discovered me in the house. The next mid-term test was in full view on top of the pile of papers on the desk. I didn’t want to be accused of trying to steal the exam for my own benefit.

I knew I should leave immediately but I was so obsessed with Mark that I had to see the Studley-Moore bedroom. That would be where Mark, against his will, had sex with that awful woman he was cohabiting with. I found it at the opposite end of the hall from the bathroom. The bed was in disarray but only one side. It was obvious to me that, not only was that awful Hellweg absent, he wasn’t bringing any other women home.

In their closet, their clothes were hanging on opposite sides. Her clothes consisted of a variety of dirndl skirts and baggy, unfeminine pant suits. Mark had a couple of older style suits, some shirts that badly needed ironing and some sweats. That woman was as neglectful of Mark’s wardrobe as she was of his diet. Didn’t she understand that intellectual men aren’t interested in clothes and that someone needs to guide them in fashion matters? Koo, I’ll make sure that he’s dressed well when I move in with him.

I walked out of the closet and saw “it”. Mark’s pajamas were lying on the floor where he left them when he got out of bed. Mark walked naked from that point, past where I was standing, to the bathroom where he shaved. The thought of Mark nude sent another thrill through my pussy. I don’t know what came over me but I had an uncontrollable urge to hug Mark’s pajamas as if he were in them. Then, I remembered that I was running out of time. I just scooped up Mark’s pajamas and stuffed them in my knapsack alongside the corrections for his thesis. I guess that, in my haste to leave the house, I forgot to close the screen door.

I walked slowly by a roundabout route to Effing Station. I’m sure that a Chinese girl running through a white neighbourhood would arouse all kinds of suspicion. If I were stopped, I certainly wouldn’t be able to explain why I had a pair of used men’s pajamas in my knapsack. Very few people were returning on the train to the city so, I’m sure that I went unnoticed.

When I got back to my room at the dorm, I closed the door securely. Then, I pulled from my knapsack the prize that I absconded from Mark’s bedroom. I buried my face in the cloth, reveling in the scent of his manly sweat. Obviously, Mark didn’t do laundry or cooking while his common-law wife was away. Koo, you’ll probably think I’m a total pervert but I even sniffed the crotch of the pajama bottoms. I almost came again from the musky smell of his willie. I knew now what I must do with Mark’s pajamas.

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