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Spunk Rats

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and characters are fictitious in every regard.

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Spunk Rats

ISBN: 978-1-60054-512-2

His and His Kisses

Cover art and design by Dawné Dominique

part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

Published by

loveyoudivine Alterotica, 2010

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Barry Lowe

SPUNK RATS

BARRY LOWE

Spunk Rats

SPUNK RATS

Tales of Sex and Obsession

spunk rat

( noun )

1. ( Australian, New Zealand slang ) An attractive person (usually male).

2. A male who seeks out semen, sometimes in dark and dingy surroundings.

Barry Lowe

HITTING THE ROOF

That’s the problem with using a builder, who is a friend of a friend of an

acquaintance who knows someone in the trade. But alas, our meager budget

extended only to the aforementioned friend of a friend of a… Sure, Jean, the head

honcho, Mauritian-born and cute as a button, and his workers were the stuff of

rough trade wet dreams and, sure, they skylarked about the house grabbing each

other in the groin area (what is it with straight men?), wolf whistling each and every

woman who passed by the site regardless of age, height, weight, skin color or even

suitability as a sex partner. But in the end, like the old adage says: You get what you

pay for.

We were now getting it in abundance. It was 3 a.m. when we heard the crash,

like the sound of a mudslide avalanching into the sea. Toby shouted, “What was

that?”

I’d heard it, too. But then things were always falling over or dislodging from the

wall in our creaking old residence. “Probably something that the builders didn’t

stack up properly and it’s fallen over in the rain,” I answered, turning over to go

back to sleep.

Suddenly, I was wide awake.

Rain? What rain?

When did that start?

We must have thought of it at the same time because neither Toby nor I bothered

to dress before tumbling over each other in our rush downstairs to reach the door to

the kitchen. Or rather, what was left of the kitchen. The rain was dripping through

the ceiling, which had collapsed under the weight of the sudden downpour.

Plasterboard, cement, building tools, and a few loose bricks lay scattered among the

sink, hotplates, refrigerator and dishwasher.

Toby cursed our luck, saving his worst for the incompetence of the builders who

had finished bricking up the wall to the upstairs extension, but, in their haste to

depart, had neglected to erect a tarpaulin over the section from which the roof had

been removed. Now the ceiling beams lay exposed like the bones of a deep fried

bream.

When I’d queried their actions, Jean had merely looked up and said, “Nah, mate,

not a cloud in the sky! She’ll be right, mate.” As it turned out, she was anything but

right.

Clearing this mess up was going to cost Jean dearly in wages. When he strolled

in the next day, late as usual, his attitude to the disaster was studied nonchalance.

“Nothing we can’t fix, mate,” he said without an ounce of concern.

I hate being called anyone’s mate, and to use the word in an obvious attempt

to invoke a non-existent friendship between us had me seeing red. “Won’t cost you a

penny to fix, mate,” he said as he could see my visible anger.

“Of course it won’t cost me a fucking penny! It’s your total lack of basic builder’s

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