Julian Corkle is a Filthy Liar

The only times I considered God was when I wanted something expensive or when I was touching myself. If it was the latter case then I preferred to think that God didn’t exist. It made no sense that a higher intelligence would’ve provided such excellent equipment then forbidden me to use it. Masturbation was a key theme at St Kevin’s. We constantly heard about the perils of it from the Christian Brothers who ran our school. I might’ve taken notice if the message had come from another source, but I had no confidence in these particular men of the cloth. For the most part, they were a miserable bunch of failures. They’d given up the worldly joys but didn’t have what it took to become priests. Brother Punt was the school’s anti-wanking fanatic. He gave the religion class twice a week.

‘Masturbation is dangerous, boys. It’s a very difficult habit to break.’

Brother Punt turned his palms upward and spread his hands in front of him with a sweeping gesture. I’d seen a magician on television do the same thing to prove he had nothing to hide. Thomas Owen put up his hand. He was the tallest boy in the class and had permanently chapped lips.

‘What about in the bath, sir? I mean how do we wash ourselves down there?’ Thomas pointed to the hot zone below the belt of his trousers.

That question would’ve been a joke from anyone else in the class but Thomas didn’t have a ha-ha sense of humour. His mother came from somewhere in Germany.

‘Good question, Owen. I have two keywords for washing yourself. Be fast and be sure. Soap your flannel into a lather and clean your privates with a brisk rubbing motion.’

‘I tried that, sir, but I’m having problems.’

We all knew what kind of problems Thomas was talking about. These were not problems as far as I was concerned.

‘Be brisk, Owen. Do not linger.’

Poor Owen. His problem wasn’t masturbation. His problem was that he thought it was a crime. I knew he had it wrong. If there was a God and he didn’t want us to touch ourselves, he would’ve given us something useless like the joyless mound of a girl. Thomas was making a Gary Jings of himself. He wasn’t supposed to attract attention to himself. His job was to get on with business and keep quiet about it. Someone had to come to his rescue.

‘Do you think Jesus had a problem with…you know?’ I looked Brother Punt in the eye and shrugged knowingly. My question seemed to throw him off balance.

‘What sort of question is that?’ The brother’s hands clamped the edge of the desk.

‘Well, I mean, did they have flannels in those days? When Jesus Christ took a bath and all, do you think he—?’

‘No! Jesus was the son of God.’

The brother was firm on this point. He lifted a hand and brought it down hard on to the desk. Thomas Owen jumped and let out a squeak.

‘But he had a man’s body.’

This I knew for a fact. I’d admired it every Sunday in its shiny plaster form on the wall of Our Lady of Miracles. I imagined Jesus had quite a Thermos flask inside the old tea towel wrapped around his loins. I’d spent many services redesigning the sculpture in my head, with and without the loincloth. My Jesus was clean-shaven with sexy little sideburns. He had a yellow brocade scarf slung around the hips, just low enough to reveal a hint of pubic hair. My scarf wasn’t tucked between the legs like Our Lady’s tea towel. In my version, the long tassels dangled cheekily in front of the groin. My design was a definite improvement on the original. It certainly would’ve encouraged more people to attend church and look up to Jesus.

‘He wouldn’t have done anything impure with his body.’ Brother Punt was leaning forward over his desk in a threatening manner.

‘But maybe he touched himself by mistake sometimes.’

‘He wouldn’t have.’ The brother’s word was final. The look on his face made that clear.

‘But he might have, you know, bumped against something accidentally. Maybe a chair or a goat.’

‘Shut up!’

I wasn’t sure if it was the mention of the chair or the goat that inflamed Brother Punt, but he moved toward me with the speed of a great white shark. I knew these particular sharks moved very fast because I’d just read an article in the Australian Ladies’ Companion about a man who’d lost a leg at Bondi Beach. I’d read it through to the end because it featured a photo of the surf lifesavers who had pulled the victim from the waves. The lifesavers wore tiny nylon bathers and little multicoloured caps that did up under the chin. The story inspired me to add surf lifesaver to my list of possible careers. But I wasn’t going to be one of the lifesavers who actually went in the water. I was going to provide cold drinks and suntan lotion, and speak to television cameras.

The teacher grabbed me under the armpit and dragged me to his desk. Reaching into the drawer, he pulled out a long, thick, leather instrument of torture. Punt had his own peculiar style with the strap. He brought the base down hard on to the palm, leaving the length of leather to slap at high speed across the delicate inner part of the wrist and forearm. I imagined it wasn’t too different from having nails driven into the wrists then being hung from a wooden cross. The brother’s technique made the veins stand out and left huge red welts on the skin.

The only good thing about being strapped was the attention it drew. Strap marks were the stigmata at my Catholic school. They were the mark of a star and sent popularity ratings sky high. At playtime I had an audience and even got a pat on the back from Ralph Waters.

7 (#ulink_8b349f64-9158-5ec1-8e34-958dfc546ecf)

Popularity had a strange effect on me. The more I had, the more I wanted. The Christian Brothers called me a show-off but they didn’t understand the value of good entertainment. My classmates did and so did my mother. This was a good base but if I was going to take my pizzazz to the next level, I needed to develop a look. That look was a lot thinner. I found the ideal solution to weight loss in an advertisement in the back of The Bugle. Ten days later, a plain brown-paper package was sitting on the table when I got home from school.

‘What’s this, then?’ My mother tapped it with her fingernail.

‘Private and personal.’

I picked it up and took it into the bathroom. I could feel my heartbeat in the back of my throat as I locked the door. The package had cost me all my pocket-money savings. It was worth it. I needed to start making preparations now if I was going to win the Little Aussie Talent Quest. I had four years to prepare myself. Mum said that the talent quest was a stepping stone to the Golden Microphone and advised me to keep my eye on the prize. It didn’t matter how I applied my pizzazz, she said. The important thing was to make full use of my star quality and one day I’d end up on television.

As an incentive, Mum had taped a photo and caption from the Companion to the door of the fridge. It showed a smiling teenage girl from Geelong, Tania, holding the Golden Microphone trophy. Her cheeks were bright pink and her teeth had braces. Mum said I would be a Tania one day. It was just a matter of doing the right thing in the right place at the right time. She called it the Golden Microphone Moment and warned me not to squander my talent as she’d done. Marrying my father just after the Tasmanian finals had been the biggest mistake of her life, she said. She never made it to the nationals.

I opened the package. It contained an instruction sheet.

Remove all items of clothing including undergarments.

Wash your body thoroughly to remove skin toxins.

Towel your body dry.

Slip the SlimQuik Body Skin on underneath your regular clothes.

The body-hugging SlimQuik Body Skin is worn against the skin and is not visible under clothes.

I took off my school uniform. The SlimQuik was made of stiff pink plastic that crackled and was designed like a Charlie Chaplin bathing suit with short legs and a sleeveless top. I climbed into it and pop-closed the row of domes running down the chest. It was too big. I’d ordered an adult medium to be on the safe side but it was hanging off me. I put my school uniform back on and looked at myself in the mirror. Apart from the suit bottoms hanging out of my shorts, no one would ever know. I rolled the legs up, stuck the instruction sheet in my pocket and opened the door. My mother watched me from the back step as I put the empty packaging in the rubbish tin.

‘You going to tell me what’s going on?’

‘It’s scientific, Mum, for the good of mankind and all that. You’ll see in ten days.’ That’s how long it would take me to lose five kilograms.

I gently nudged Mum on my way back inside. The suit crackled as we bumped.

‘Snap, crackle, pop!’ She laughed and ruffled my hair.

I ignored her and headed back to my bedroom without moving my arms. A new Celebrity Glitter had arrived and I had research to do. The magazine had an exposé on Elizabeth Taylor’s secret second marriage to Richard Burton, a good move in my opinion. Burton was a generous man. He’d given Liz all her best necklaces and didn’t seem to mind her plumpness.

My own body was supposed to have projections and hollows like the bodies of other boys who were now elongating and sprouting. But puberty was not so kind to me. I was increasing in density and getting softer and rounder. My father did nothing for my confidence. I was foolish enough to walk past him one day without a shirt. He’d looked at my chest and laughed. ‘Look at those bottle tops! Ha, ha.’

This was rich coming from him. The pair he had on his chest talked to each other when he climbed the three steps to the back door. I knew where the bottle tops on my chest came from and I resented him for it. His other physical deformity I didn’t want was body hair. I desperately wanted pubic hair but I feared what adolescence might do to my back. Dad’s hairs marched their way north from his bum crevice like a hungry army, fanning out at the top of his back and sweeping over his shoulders. From there they worked their way south again, over his chest and down past his stomach. Carmel said if we rubbed him along our nylon carpet we’d generate enough static to attach him to the back of the couch.

My body density would’ve been unbearable if I’d suffered it alone but it was reassuring to suffer it along with Elizabeth Taylor. The Celebrity Glitter article was particularly unkind. It referred to Liz as a bejewelled porker. I decided to write to her personally through her fan club.

Dear Liz,

Don’t worry about being a little on the big side. You’re the world’s best ambassador for big people because you’ve still got a beautiful face and anyway, you could be a lot bigger. So don’t worry. You’re a big star, big and shiny like a real star in the sky.

I just wanted to tell you that.

By the way, is the Cartier diamond heavy? Sixty-nine seems a lot of carats even for a big diamond like the Cartier. Those carats must be heavy. That’s what I think anyway.