War/Peace. Matthew Vandenberg

I'm here, to be honest. It's a break from the Cross. The job has its perks, don't get me wrong, but I gotta say that the requirement that you gotta be under the age of 25 to enter this joint is a damn good one. Thank goodness there are no frickin' benches here, like the ones at Gosford station. I ain't sittin' on a fuckin' bench, wearing the appropriate t-shirt, waiting for a client, shifting my gaze left then right, sighting someone – in tight, white fleece, body the size of a football field, ugly as a Tasmanian Devil: so I'm thinking, “How the fuck can I play on this court without falling into any holes?” Damn! She winks once, then twice, and then I know she's the one, even before she places her bag on the seat, taps the straps so that one strap falls to each side – spreading its legs so to speak -, and asks me to watch the small handbag for a second. I nod and then I wish I hadn't. I'm pretty sure I got the right to refuse sometimes, if the bitch is over 80. So I'm damn glad there are no benches here, just a damn fine stage.

      'Ok, ya'll! I got a mate here today. His name is Shaun Turner. You might have read his stuff on the FB. And now I wanna ask the DJ to spin a tune: Michael Paynter and The Veronicas, Love The Fall. Kill the verses coz my mates gonna try some rap, the guy has some lines he wants to spit. Let's give it up for Shaun Turner!'

      Applause rings through the crowd, along with cheers, and squeals.

      I hop down from the stage. My hands are shaking. So are my arms. I'm nervous. I'm so glad I still get nervous every time I give a speech, every time I perform. Nervous as though walking through a crowd of completely naked women, brushing my thighs against theirs, pressing my nose to one neck after another, breathing in their scents, watching as several girls drop to their knees, place their hands on the floor, spread their fingers as though they are flower petals unfolding, and then move towards me on all fours, four or more, their flexible bodies moving so freely, leaving full-body prints of perspiration in the form of fancy fractals on the naked floor, breathing heavily, each of them, and smiling also, some Greek, some Asian, each lot from a specific area of Sydney. This is the place where they all gather, just to have a good time. Commonly referred to as Club Y, located on level 5 and three quarters of the Westfield at Bondi Junction, is a place where some elite meet regularly. But entry into Sodom is only free if your body is, and you're under the age of 25. No alcohol is served on the premises because this is not an ordinary club where the owners wish to make a profit, not another branch of some major corporation. And furthermore, there is no need for alcohol when you are asked to hang your inhibition on a hook by the door, by the hooker or the whore: he who stands there to greet you before you step onto the dance floor. Greetings, my name is Jackson Curtis, suck on this beat bitch!

      'Yo, speed the tempo a little. That's good, great. K, try to keep up . . .

      'Two taps on the pavement/

      Got a beat:

      if you clap,

      it'll break your neck/

      Got a bitch:

      she's a tap/

      Now my flow is wet/

      Got a tick?/

      Take a ride

      coz we goin' there/

      Keep the beat

      on the heat

      'til she has to swear/

      Keep it weak:

      you're the bass/

      Hit! And she's the snare/

      Keep crawlin':

      muthafuckin' all in/

      This shit's a disease:

      it's our weed

      'til the mornin'/

      Take my lead, your feed,

      if indeed

      you're that naughty/

      If you wanna cream

      shake your knees

      on the dance floor/

      Metaphors asleep,

      on the porch

      by the back door/

      Gotta wake 'em up,

      get 'em wet,

      make 'em dance more/

      Gotta take a chance,

      take a stance,

      break the dance floor/

      This'll be the beat

      that they ban

      in the dance hall/

      DJ's gonna freak

      coz this track

      wasn't planned for:

      spins the fuckin' disc

      'til it skips

      'til it can't walk/

      If I have a wish

      it's a clit

      on the dance floor/

      And if chicks insist:

      here's the hit

      you all asked for/

      Slit your fuckin' wrist

      or sniff coke

      'till your arse falls/

      Hedonic and broke,

      take a stroke,

      coz it's last call/

      Take her in your arms/

      If you're gay:

      take the bloke whore.'

      The Veronicas sing the chorus:

      "So what if I dive off the edge of my life

      And there’s nothing beneath?/

      What if I live like there’s nothing to lose

      just to die on my knees?/

      At least I’ll know

      I walked the dark/

      I took the scars/

      I risked it all

      and learned to love the fall###."

      Then Shaun:

      'She's just iron ore:

      way her gaze just irons y'all/

      Keeps you in an iron core:

      naked babe so ripe and raw/

      She the skin as tight as law/

      Stage all lit with lights and all . . .'

      'You look so red,' she says, brushing my cheek with two fingers, her nails as soft as petals.

      'Feel it too. Do you feel the light?' - Above us, the disco ball is spinning. It strikes a pose for several seconds and then spins again, twirls like a dancer, prancing: legs the beams of light which saturate our bodies, all colors of the fruit bowl, with succulent visual appeal, apparel definitive and sublime. - 'Some cells can respond to light photons, you know*. If special opsin genes are placed into our neurons, then the disco ball can become our God, and we can move to the music for one surreal, ethereal, eternal dance, totally addicted to bass, light, and the piercing gaze of strobe: these skinny, thin, fine, beaut legs. Don't blink – your eyes are perfect. Kiss me.' And not even the most elaborate equation*** could have predicted the motion of her lips as they, like thousands of animated legs, like wings of angels, brush against mine. This is the reason we can't live forever, our genes favor reproduction over longevity##. But why should we argue? Castration lengthens the life of a male, but who the fuck would want to be castrated, who the fuck wouldn't wanna fuck the concubines here in the sublime suburb of Bondi J, the sexy babes who inhabit these sharp-as-crystal crevices somewhere in the heart of Westfield BJ. It's a sharp image, clean, pristine and beautiful, her legs like pegs pinning you to the ground, she speaks, her