What's eatin' you

Say, you and you
And me makes three
What's eatin' you
Is eatin' me.
- Airbourne, 2007

“Yeah, us again,” I admitted after our first song back on stage at . “We’re still Flange Gasket - seems deusexmachina couldn’t make it here tonight.”

“Yeah, their machina broke down somewhere outside of Albury-Wodonga, apparently… Anyone here from Albury?” Isolated cheers. “Anyone here from anywhere that isn’t an exclusive Sydney private school that Mummy and Daddy paid for? Ooohh, heyyy, struck a nerve there, I see…”

“Watch it, Uncle Sam, we’re supposed to be making friends here. Flange Gasket loves everyone, even if you did go to a GPS school. Now let’s get serious. Anyone here,” I bellowed, “from the mighty North Coast of New South Wales? Represent y’all!”

A small but solid cheer of support, as we solemnly raised our own hands. McCarthy made a show of looking behind stage. “Grinspoon have their hands up,” he reported.

“Yes folks, I’m afraid we are from the country…” McCarthy started playing a Duelling Banjos-esque riff as I spoke. “Uncle Sam and me, we go waaayyyy back… he’s my brother, or my cousin, can never remember which…”

“Means the same dang thing where we’s from, yee haw!”

“Thank you sir. For the benefit of those of you from the country who have come to the big city to seek your fortune, we now present a cautionary tale of isolation and heartbreak that we like to call Our Year 12 Formal Was At The Evans Head Bowling Club. Take it away, Pants Man.”

We weren’t lacking for material - if anything it was harder leaving songs out to fit into a 40 minute ‘showcase’ set than thinking of what to play when we suddenly had more time to fill in. In our regular gigs we were up to a ratio of at least 80:20 originals to reinvented covers by now, though more of the latter inevitably got cranked out when we played on our own rather than support to someone else, just to pad out the evening's setlist(s). We made sure to mention this time around that we were playing the Golden Grove down the road tomorrow night, as well as all the other dates and locations that people could get their Gasket renewed over the next week. We finished the set with a rigorous academic examination of Led Zeppelin’s contribution to the ‘dirty blues’ element in early ‘70s rock and roll. OK, it was just the latest iteration of that bunch of old covers of theirs stitched together which we’d been playing for ages, themselves ‘borrowed’ from legendary Delta bluesmen, but as we pointed out at the time, “It’s not technically plagiarism if Led Zep ripped it off someone else before we ripped if off them.”

We retired for the night in triumph. The sign of a good set is when the crowd disperses once the DJ takes over again, sensing anticlimax and fleeing from it, instead of doing so when he gets off and you start playing. We’d had both sides of the coin happen to us, but tonight the kids were on our side. We’d made a lot of new friends, even if McCarthy reckoned he had enough friends already. He certainly didn’t mind getting friendlier with Emma-Kate - and under any other circumstances, good luck to him, she was a babe (and probably would have been even with dreads). She did look a bit dishevelled, though, a little light-headed and unsteady on her feet; her 2IC, a dependable, level-headed, exceptionally-gay dude called Siimon (two ‘I’s, both of which were on Marty a lot) had insisted on taking over for the rest of the night, as they’d originally planned to do once the preparations were all complete and the event was actually underway (notwithstanding deusexmachina’s no-show, which had torpedoed the existing plan-of-action and forced her into OCD Panic Monkey Must-Take-Over-Everything Mode.) So Siimon insisted on letting her go home and relax for the rest of the evening, and McCarthy insisted on walking her back to her place in Randwick. I suggested he might want to help lug-out first, thanks all the same, but all he said to me was “Great Northern, three weeks ago. What was her name again, the Swede? Karolina or something?”

On that point I was forced to concede. We had a standing arrangement within the band, an understanding that members may be excused from lugging-out under certain exacting, mitigating circumstances. For instance Yours Drunkenly being Very Much On with a gorgeous Swedish backpacker called Karolina... what can I say, time is usually of the essence in situations like these, and distractions (like hauling gear into a truck) are usually fatal to the ambitions surrounding the task at hand.

I wanted to hang around for Grinspoon’s set - to be honest, I really wanted to track down Lena and apologise again for my part in McCarthy’s ‘growing a pair’ (as he insisted on calling it) - but everyone else had other plans. Marty and Phil wanted to get the gear and the truck safely back to the locked garage at Phil’s grandparents. The Jeff wanted to tag along with Beck to the bump-in party for the latest NUTS performance (bump-in is the lug-in of theatre types, but being theatre types, as soon as they get the theatre all set up and sorted, and have their final dress rehearsal on site, they retire to someone’s place nearby and descend into Bacchanalian depravity and excess the likes of which you would not believe. I liked partying with theatre types.) Super Dave, our generous host, had been keen on seeing the Spoon crank on, but seeing as though we were supporting them again next week, and seeing as though he hadn’t been to one of those epic NUTS parties since back when he was flatting with McCarthy, he changed his position PDQ to align himself with Jeff’s proposal. He came back with us in the Landcruiser to help with securing the gear - probably more to speed the process up than through any great sense of philanthropy, but we appreciated the help. Beck came too, but seeing as though she was smaller than some of the amplifier boxes, she wasn’t quite as much use to us as Super Dave. Except as our living, breathing access pass to the ‘afterparty’, of course.

Marty and Phil decided to stay at Phil’s grandparents’ place rather than kick on; they were too knackered. That is to say, Marty felt hugely uncomfortable inviting himself to a party full of people he didn’t know, and Phil, out of loyalty to Marty (given that the latter was a guest in his family’s house) reluctantly opted out as well. I reluctantly opted in; I really did feel lousy over McCarthy blowing Lena off (and that I’d misread the situation so badly - he certainly wasn’t still in love with her, just resented her bitterly and wanted his four years back), but I had to come, I was told, as I was the only actual on-stage member of Flange Gasket left who could give the other two credibility.

Fuck it, I thought, on reflection. McCarthy’s right. He was treated poorly, and while two wrongs don’t make a right, three lefts do. I wasn’t sure how that was relevant, but by that stage I’d reached the bump-in party, had been received like a conquering Caesar returned from battle, and downed a ladleful or four of the memorably neurotoxic punch, a tradition in these parts; it contained most of the contents of the local bottleshop and could peel paint far better than any riff of ours. I had the distinct pleasure of making the acquaintance of Emily, a doe-eyed little brunette who was as gorgeous as she was completely spaced-out on some personality pill or other, probably containing some sort of MDMA-related extract. At least it made me more popular. And before you start rolling your eyes - I didn’t. I was a perfect gentleman. I merely exchanged mobile numbers with her, and made a solemn promise to see her again later in the week - she lived (with her parents) in North Ryde, not far from Gladesville, and she pledged to bring everyone she knew to our Sunday afternoon set at the Bay View.

It was two or three in the morning by the time Super Dave and I, last among the survivors, left the party and began trying to figure out where the hell we were - on the way over from St Peters, Beck had navigated while the taxi swerved randomly through the inner-east. This is where we could have made use of McCarthy, the human Refidex. Ah ha, said Super Dave, the 24 hour servo on the corner of Cowper St and Alison Road. We’re in Randwick. Just over that hill, he continued, Alison Road runs down to eventually junction with Arden St on the hillside just north of Coogee’s main drag, which is pretty much where we need to be. He made it sound like a brief trot, rather than the death march it turned out to be - at least we’d thought to gain sustenance from a round of Powerades and a couple of Chicken Hero rolls before we set off.

I’ve mentioned before that our mate Super Dave had his own inimitable turn of phrase that was as inventive as it was offensive. He was first to popularize the phrase ‘the Jesus cunting fuck’, as in ‘what the Jesus cunting fuck are these jokers playing at’. He had a way with words that could curdle milk at ten paces. Even over breakfast.

“Mate, I tell you what, how fuckin' hot were those girls last night? That Emily - you got her number, yeah? - she’s seriously fuckworthy. Would do her, definitely.”

“Sure she’d be thrilled to hear it,” I laughed.

“But her little lesbie-friend Clarissa, or Carissa, or whatever she’s called…”

“I thought it was Carina?” Could have been Corinna, actually. I hadn’t been taking notes at the time.

“Could have been… whatever the Jesus cunting fuck she’s called, she’s fucking awesome. Mate, I don’t care if she’s a rug-muncher, I’d still growl out the last chick she had a hand in...”

Jesus Christ… “Dave, I’m not sure she’s actually gay gay, I got the impression she just mucks around with chicks on the side. Bisexual until graduation, you know the type.”

“Ah, yeah. In that case,” he declared, “I’d still growl out the last chick who was fucked by the last bloke who fucked her...” His brow furrowed. “Hang on, that sound right to you?”

“Don’t think so,” I said. “Sounds a bit suspect.”

“Must have been in this donut-punching town too long,” he noted. “It’s making me into some sort of pervert.”

A thump at the door. It was McCarthy, artfully dishevelled from excess of ill-gotten lovin’.

“Didn’t stay for breakfast, old son?”

“Nah… she offered, but she’s veggo, her fridge is full of tofu and shit. Nice girl, but Jesus, she hasn’t calmed down much over the years.”

“So she’s vegetarian…” Super Dave pulled a disparaging face. Not eating animals was against his religion.

“Worse. Vegan. Won’t go near anything of animal origin - eggs, milk, you name it. And obviously she doesn’t let any meat touch her lips… other than mine, of course.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…”

“Hey, I had to say it before this bastard did,” McCarthy grinned. Super Dave nodded to indicate that yes, he would have been straight through that door had McCarthy left it even slightly ajar.

Through the slightly ajar door at that moment appeared the Jeff. Great, I thought, if anyone can lower the tone any further it’s my classy little brother. The man who’d perfected the use of “G’day. Want a root?” as a pick-up line. He looked less unkempt than McCarthy, but equally tired.

“Well, mate,” advanced Super Dave, “what’s the story - is she really a redhead underneath?”

“I couldn’t tell you, mate,” he replied. Whether this was because he hadn’t been able to check, or whether he was self-editing because Beck had just burst in through the door after him, I wasn’t sure.

“What’s this about redheads, Mr Super Dave… if that is your real name?”

“I was just asking Jeff,” Super Dave bullshitted fluently, “where’s our favourite redhead?”

“Here I am!” she declared. You’d have thought we’d asked where is Thumbkin. She gave Jeff a big squeeze around his waist and added, “He followed me home… can we keep him, Daddy? Can we, can we?”

Not sure what I was going to find more wearing this morning, Super Dave’s molestation of my eardrums/sensibilities or Beck’s irrepressible hyperactivity.

“What did you guys get up to last night?” I enquired. “You disappeared at some stage, we never sighted you again.”

“We just went for a walk,” he replied. “Down to the ocean cliffs at Clovelly to watch the surf.”

“Doing what exactly?”

“Talking,” Jeff said.

“Just talking?” asked McCarthy.

“Just talking,” Rebecca contended, and shared a smile with Jeff. A special kind of smile that required no further explanation. Jeff’s patented brand of whimsical observation and no-bullshit honesty had somehow struck a chord with Rebecca, the flighty, feisty actress from the North Shore. They’d walked down to the rocks and sat there until sunrise, just watching the waves, and talking. I found that astonishing. Beck I knew could talk underwater with a mouthful of marbles, but Jeff was like the old man - his words were rationed carefully. I didn’t think he had five hours’ worth of conversation in him, let alone an all-night deep-and-meaningful with Beck. Times like this, when suddenly there’s an emotional attachment between two people you know well, and you know the history of both parties, you just cross your fingers it’s going to turn out OK without either or both managing to get themselves hurt - particularly considering the only thing you could say with certainty was that Jeff was leaving town next Sunday. I wasn’t sure whether it would have been better if they’d just gotten funky with each other and left it at that, to be honest.

I tell you, 24 hours in this town and everything turns twisted and pear-shaped. No wonder Sydney has the highest concentration of depressed bastards in Australia. It’s official - check the National Depressed Bastards Index.

Things improved markedly on Saturday night when we almost got killed by the Bra Boys. I say almost because if we’d gone through with McCarthy’s genius stunt to write ‘2480’ on our upper arms in texta, the same way the Bra Boys have Maroubra’s postcode tattooed on their biceps, I would say we’d be shark chum off South Maroubra headland by now. McCarthy was certain they’d get the joke, but I wasn’t so confident; let’s just say their reputation preceded them. Namely by a story in Australian Surfing Life, that was, which explained their particular world view, and their means of dealing with people who held differing world views, such as ASL journalists who write exposés about the culture of prominent surf gangs and their links to drug distribution and organised crime. The guy in question did go back to work eventually, but it’s pretty hard to operate a laptop when both your arms have been broken in multiple places by being slammed in a car door. Repeatedly.

The Golden Grove was pretty seedy. It was below ground level, the bottom floor of a development along Anzac Parade at Maroubra Junction; pokies rang out through the smoky gloom and the barmaid was an old duck called Cheryl. In other words, just like half the pubs we played at in Lismore. The clientele weren’t the self-involved North Shore affluenza-afflicted kids of the New South uni bar a few kays to the north; these were working-class people, more in line with our demographic, much more laid-back and relaxed. They remained laid-back and relaxed even when a group of tanned, muscled dudes in T-shirts and singlets with ‘2035’ tattooed on their bronzed biceps, wandered in like they owned the place. Mainly because they pretty much did. ASL’s story hadn’t listed the Golden Grove among the area pubs which the Bra Boys ‘owned’, but I figured it was safe to say anywhere in Maroubra was theirs to rule. Their group included at least one of the Abbertons, at my reckoning – not sure which one, again forgot to take notes – which meant this wasn’t a small-scale meeting of the clans. I don’t intimidate easily; then again, as Gerbil from ACME Industries could have told you, it’s hard to play guitar when your arms don’t work.

We shouldn’t have worried, though. Some of the boys came over in one of our set breaks and mentioned they’d seen us last night supporting Grinspoon. Who’d been, in their opinion, “fuckin’ shithouse.” They’d gone along with reasonably high hopes, liking their stuff that was getting played on Triple J like DCX3 and Champion, but apparently the Spoon had put in a pretty sloppy set on the night - having seen them on the odd occasion back around home, we knew that on their day, they were certainly capable of doing that. It wasn’t the last time we were to hear that said about the gig at the Roundhouse - that we’d come off looking pretty bloody good by comparison. To this day, the Spoon’s off-night when we supported them at New South is probably the biggest favour those boys ever did for us.

We adapted to our environment by inverting our ‘Whitsun method’ from playing at Airlie - that is, instead of slowing down and paring back our sound to fit more tranquil surroundings, we turned up, thrashed harder, and McCarthy kept on stomping on his overdriver like a bus driver dealing with a dodgy clutch pedal. Even The Last Spice Girl, normally imbued with a big lovin' spoonful of Chili Pepper funk, sounded more like the Celibate Rifles or the Hard-Ons - two bands which had always done well around these parts, on the basis of churning out unadulterated, frenetic Aussie garage punk. Starting out at the bottom, we could only hope to emulate their success - particularly if it could be parlayed into a part-time career as an irreverant SBS football pundit, as the Rifles’ Damo Lovelock had managed to do. In the tight, packed confines of the Golden Grove, our approach was ear-splitting, but successful.

Our ears were still ringing next afternoon (despite the industrial-grade earplugs we routinely used by now) as we lugged into the Bay View Hotel in Gladesville. Another day, another very different side to this city - if you could even call Sydney a city, rather than a massive network of small self-contained villages and feudal-state enclaves, each with its own culture, language, cuisine and scenery. The Bay View faced onto Victoria Road, but out the back from the enclosed deck there were views out over the northern side of the harbour and little inlets like Lane Cove, from the ridge on which Victoria Road and Gladesville were positioned. Seemed a good pub, shiny but not wankerish, plenty of good stuff on tap - relaxed enough for a Sunday session, yet certainly of a more refined nature than the beer barns we’d been accustomed to. No sign of young Emily, however. I sent her a text along the lines of ‘Hey, Andy here, are you coming down for our gig?’ and got ‘Who is this?’ in reply. Ouch. Par for the course in this town, I observed with a wry, if reluctant grin, knowing the score, and switched off my phone - we were on in five.

Back to the original ‘Whitsun method’ - stripped back, clean and relaxed was the order of the day. We were on from two-thirty, when the bistro closed, to six, when they opened again. (Decent feed they did as well - again, we were getting paid three-fifths of bugger-all, but they’d thrown lunch in as part of our ‘rider’, as well as the odd pint of generic domestic should we be so inclined, just to lubricate the vocal chords of course.) It was a mixed crowd this afternoon at the Bay View – local Macquarie Uni students on a Sunday sesh, a bunch of late twentysomethings who'd kicked on after lunch, a few business types in town for a conference, the usual cadre of old fellas putting a few on the horsies over a New or two. That said, we went over pretty well. Wasn’t our best ever gig in terms of audience participation, but afternoon slots never are - folks don’t want to get up and shake it, they just want something to kick back to and sup a few quiets with. We slipped plenty of covers into the three sets we played - lots of laid-back bluesy stuff wherever we could. Some of the business types came over to say hello during our last set break - they were Canon sales reps in town for a conference this week; Canon Australia’s HQ was just over the hill in North Ryde, I seemed to recall - our old mate Cuntstable Care’s day job was within their software design team as a front-end interface dude (or ‘User Experience Designer’ as Canon called it in true corporate wankword fashion). The Canon contingent were a mixed bunch as well - a couple of older guys, some younger, tech-nerd-looking lads reminiscent of Cuntstable Care or the King of Seed (though the latter, despite being a mad tech-head, was actually an accountant), and a striking statuesque late-twenties-maybe-early-thirties blonde who was deftly ignoring the mawkish advances of the others as the alcoholic cloud grew more dense, despite being fairly comprehensively pished herself by half-five in the afternoon. She seemed much more interested in the band, in particular the guy with the iridescent orange guitar out the front.

“Nice colour,” she offered, eyes sparkling. “I’ve got a bikini just that colour back at home.”

So what do you say to that? I’m wearing a leopard-print gold lamé posing pouch, myself…

Chrissy was from Perth, she was in town for a short time, she was bored, she was drunk (pretty much), and she was looking for a little excitement. At the end of our last set, when her group was just leaving, she ambled over to me out of sight of the others, pressed something warm and silken into the palm of my hand, and said she’d see me later. She sauntered away, her hips swivelling luridly.

I opened my hand. It was her room key. Wrapped in her knickers.

I took a rational, level-headed look at the situation, threw some boxes into the back of the Landcruiser (just enough to get me off the hook with the boys), invoked the now-well-established ‘Karolina Protocol’, and disappeared in a taxi over the hill to her hotel, the Blaxland in North Ryde. The girl on reception looked as disinterested in me as anyone has ever looked in anything as I brushed past her desk; must have figured I was some random guest. I matched the room number on the key to that on one of the doors with rising, erm, anticipation. Anything could have been behind that door - some kind of Candid Camera setup, an enraged husband waving a sawn-off, a black-market organ-smuggling syndicate looking for fresh supplies. Like that would dissuade me - I’d gone without intimacy of the pants-free variety since we’d toured Brisbane, goddammit. That was weeks ago. OK, week ago. But the point remained, as did my anticipatory half-mongrel. I slotted the key in the door, pushed my way inside, and found Chrissy on the bed, long blonde hair spilling over the pillow, blouse open, skirt pulled up to her waist; her vibrator’s low hum doing its work between her smooth, tanned thighs. She couldn’t wait, she protested gamely, so she’d started without me. Clearly she wasn’t one for hanging around.

My opinion of Sydney was improving by the hour.

Or in Chrissy’s case, an hour and a half, though the last twenty minutes was spent in the shower. I left as she answered a call on her mobile from her husband, surrupticiously slipping her wedding and engagement rings back on as she bade him a sweet hello, but not before blowing me a goodbye kiss. Hair still wet from the shower, I passed back by reception - same girl, God knows what she was thinking, if she was thinking anything - and out into the lowering dusk.

God knows what any of us was thinking, in particular Chrissy. Jesus Christ, that girl had the devil in her. And a lot of other things. Remind me never to get married, in case I get married to someone like that.

Still shaking my head as I walked down towards the main shopping area of North Ryde (including Top Ryde Shopping Square, distant sister to Lismore’s example, inheriting its familiar familial shabbiness), I pulled out my phone and switched it back on, in case the boys had tried to reach me. It was a quarter to eight. I might have dined out royally, but I’d missed dinner. We were supposed to be at one of the Thai places in The Spot (a cool little locality between Randwick and Coogee, just down the road from the Royal, where the Randwick Ritz, Albert’s Pizza and a bunch of good Thai places are stationed) where Beck was waitressing. There was a message on my voicemail, most likely McCarthy or one of the boys. That lot were probably there, but I’d been, um, sidetracked.

I didn’t recognise the voice at first. It was a girl, sounding rather embarrassed.

“Uh, hi Angus… sooo sorry about before, I didn’t realise who you were… I had to call Beck to ask who Andy was, I’m such an idiot... Anyway I’m sorry I missed your gig, I had to work… are you still around tonight? If we could catch up, that would be awesome. Sorry again. Bye…”

This is the problem when various people know you by various names - Andrew, Angus, Andy, Youngy, The Youngster (usage thankfully obscure), AYyyyy, The Jeff Senior, that cunt in the loud shirt…

I called her back. Emily was working in a café just down the road, but they were closing at eight, and would absolutely love to catch up and get something to eat afterwards. We went to a noodle bar nearby, and recommenced the intensive flirting from our previous encounter. I was delighted to find she was just as interesting company when I wasn’t drunk and she wasn’t on drugs. Though I was trying very hard not to look like someone who’d just had sex with a frustrated, desperately horny businesswoman, I must have been radiating pheremones even still, judging by how positively my company was being received by young Emily. I liked the stories her big brown doe-eyes were telling me. I walked her home; she asked me in for a coffee. Her parents were out, she said. She barely managed to get the kettle on before we were kissing passionately, sprawled across the breakfast bar. I am having a Good Day, I recognised. She wrestled my shirt and pants off; I stripped her clingy black top and her tight black pants, before carrying her in a fireman’s lift into her bedroom. Her bra and panties gave way without a struggle, a condom appeared from somewhere (might have been my wallet, not entirely sure, things were happening pretty bloody quickly) and she was astride me in moments, naked and luscious and riding me with abandon. Goddamn. Sydney and I were starting to get along quite well.

Emily liked dirty stories. She liked telling me, matter-of-factly as she rode me, how the first time she’d ever come was at pony club one day, when she’d been riding her horse away from the rest of the group, and she started to get this hot tingly feeling between her thighs when she rubbed against the saddle as he trotted up and down, and she liked it, and she kept doing it, and doing it, and doing it, until she felt her pants getting wet, and she couldn’t breathe, and she just wanted to push her fingers inside herself and scream out loud… and after that, she liked riding her horsey very much... With that, Emily lost herself in the aching, throbbing throes of orgasm. I was her very favourite horsey to ride, she told me. Who said bestiality couldn’t be fun. And this horsey still had spare hay in the stable… or something. I don’t know. To coin a phrase, fuck off and write this shit yourself then.

Just then I heard polite applause coming from the doorway. Surprised? I nearly… well, I’m sure you can guess what I nearly. From my elegant position sprawled across Emily’s bed with my strides akimbo, I tried to look relaxed and calm as I craned my head off the bed to see who our audience was. Thankfully, it was the little blonde of unknown sexual orientation, Carissa or Clarissa (or Carina, or possibly Corinna), rather than, say, her parents, or her boyfriend. Carissa (or near offer), the one Super Dave had outed as an ‘ewok-scraper’, had short hair with a spiky punk-rock fringe, a tight T-shirt through which her hard nipples strained, and a pair of combat pants, which were unfastened and had slid loose down around her thighs. She wasn’t a believer in underwear, I recalled from our brief but intriguing conversation at the Friday night party; not just she didn't wear them, but didn't believe in them as a societal concept. Funny how you remember little strands of conversation from parties even when you’re comprehensively munted. It took little imagination to work out what she’d been doing to herself while she’d been watching breathlessly; indeed, her fingers still glistened in the low light of Emily’s bedroom. How long she’d been watching, I wasn’t sure, but the look which she and Emily shared suggested it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for her drop by of an evening while her parents were out.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Carissa (we’ll run with that) said. “After all, I’m only here so Em and I can study for our exam tomorrow,” she added ironically.

“What did you say the exam was?” Emily asked matter-of-factly. “Roman history, yeah?”

“Told mine it was Greek,” Carissa shrugged. “They never seem to compare notes.” She slipped her pants down around her ankles, and tugged off her shirt, as Emily began grinding her hips against mine all over again. I had much to thank Chrissy from Perth for – I’d have lost the plot long ago, this would have been wayyy too much to endure, if she hadn’t ‘taken the edge off’ earlier. Even so I was starting to file through the depths of my memory for the final scores of all the grand finals I could remember. 1985 was 7-6 Canterbury over St George. 1986 was 4-2 Parra. 1987 was 16-6 to fuckin' Manly...

Carissa climbed onto the bed, lay her head down on my chest and watched, intently, the interactive goings-on (what you might call the 'hydraulics') between Emily and I. She seemed fascinated by the sight, even by the mere idea that a boy could bring a girl such pleasure in this way. She helped Emily out where she could, asking again and again, is that good, Em? Is that nice? Do you like him doing that to you?

Emily, by now well on the way to her second climax, said that it was more than satisfactory. He’s got great fingers too, she added. Even better than yours...

Carissa thought that was a leading statement and didn’t believe that for a second, so Emily insisted she try them. Carissa swung herself over, positioning her vulnerable, sticky softness where I could reach her. She surrendered deliciously to my touch, finally offering the commentary that it was different to a girl… a girl touches you the way she likes to be touched herself, whereas a boy, Carissa claimed, touches you the way he wants to fuck you.

“How would you know?” Emily retorted. “You’ve never had a boy inside you in your life.”

“Guesswork?” she suggested.

“Too scared to try,” she contended. “You should, you might even like it. I dare you.”

Carissa bucked against my fingers as I pushed them harder into her, bringing her to a shallow, yelping climax, as Emily raced her to hers, and I ran out of grand final scores and started trying to remember all the surfing world champs again. Now MR was 1979. Definitely. Unless it was Rabbit Bartholemew.

Afterwards, she sighed, she prepared to relent to peer pressure, just this once. “Alright, alright, okay. If I must. If you insist… Is he still hard?”

“Is he ever…” Emily slithered up and out of my lap. “See?”

It was, let's be clear, pretty fucking weird being discussed in the third person, like an anthropomorphic sex toy. I have feelings too, you know, I could have said… but kept shtum as it was working rather well for me so far, and to be fair, the weirdness was helping me stay 'in the moment', as it were. Surreal doesn’t even begin to describe it. Was this what was supposed to happen to rock stars? Could I expect more of this sort of stuff if things continued on the up-and-up? And who did I have to sign my soul over to in order to guarantee it?

Carissa crawled down the other end of Emily’s bed, sat up facing Emily, away from me - not exactly her worst angle, either - and crouched over my sheathed hard-on, cautiously positioning it against her throbbing wetness. Emily sensed her friend’s tentative concern.

“It’s okay, girl,” she coaxed. “It’s just like a toy. A big... flesh-coloured... toy,” she giggled.. Just close your eyes and pretend it's me, yeah?”

Carissa reached her arms around behind, supporting herself on my chest as she tentatively lowered herself onto and around her new flesh-coloured toy, which Emily gripped firmly and guided into her. WahhhaaaayyyYYYYY... Barton Lynch was 1989. BARTON LYNCH WAS 1989.

Only then did Emily address me, over Carissa's shoulder, for the first time in some time: “Congratulations, Angus, you’re about to go where no man has come before.”

“Stop it,” Carissa directed. “You’re spoiling my concentration. Don’t remind me I’m sinning against nature here.”

Ever so slowly, she rose up, then squeezed back down, and up again, closing her eyes and describing the heat of it, the way it throbbed, how utterly unlike a toy it felt, how if only girls were blessed with these things, her life would be complete…

Okay, that’s it. Thank you line judges, thank you ballgirls. Thirty-two minutes past the hour, lift-off on Apollo 11.

But I managed to hold out just for one moment longer. Because just at that one moment, I heard the remote garage door opening one floor below, and saw the beams of headlights piercing through the lace curtains of Emily’s upstairs bedroom. Her parents were home. HER PARENTS ARE HOME. WHO GIVES A FUCK WHEN BARTON LYNCH WAS ASP WORLD CHAMPION, HER PARENTS ARE HOME...

Emily let out a shriek, leaving her ministrations around Carissa’s nether regions, to race out to the kitchen and retrieve our clothes. Panicking, she threw them into her wardrobe, along with Carissa and I. I think she managed to get her clothes back on before her parents got upstairs, and they launched into some argument or other of the sort eighteen-year-old first-year girls have with their parents when they still live at home. Not, thankfully, about why she was ‘entertaining’ a boy and a girl in her room while they were away visiting the rellos.

“Hi,” whispered Carissa. She was pressed firmly against me, her face under my chin, little beads of sweat filming her brow. It was tight in there. The wardrobe, I mean.

“Hi,” I replied.

“Sorry, I wasn’t ignoring you before… it’s just a little awkward. I’m Carissa.”

“I’m Angus,” I murmured with a grin. “No offence taken.” Interesting that she’d completely forgotten our meeting at the party a few nights previously. A little deflating, as well…

She giggled. “…Look, I don’t make a habit of this, just so you know.”

Voices were being raised outside. Accusations and threats were being exchanged.

“You mean ending up in a wardrobe with a naked guy?”

“Pretty much.” She smiled, just using her eyes. She liked me. That wasn't deflating.

Barton Lynch was world champ in 1988, I suddenly remembered. That Pommy bastard was '89, Martin Potter. Either Tom Curran or Tom Carroll in 1990... What the hell's she doing with that hand? And can she keep doing it please?

Carissa idly stroked (caressa'd?) me, casting her eyes down like she was making up her mind to do something she might regret, but kinda wanted to try anyway.

“Look, I’m not very good at this… I’ve never done it before, okay?”

She looked up with hopeful blue eyes. I offered a confused nod which she must have mistaken for reassurance. Thank CHRIST.

“So, um, just pull my hair or something if I get it wrong, OK?”

I felt her slide against my body, down to her knees; feeling her pert breasts surrounding my hard-on, then her warm breath on it as she peeled away the condom and ran her inexperienced little tongue over the head, inquisitively at first, then learning as she went. Then she took the plunge, bravely taking me deep into her mouth, and set about sucking my brains out. She took her lips away only to press a finger against them and shhhh me coquettishly when I became a little too vocal in my appreciation, then went back to work, her fingers searching between her thighs as she knelt, her clear blue eyes inquiring quizzically if she was doing it right.

She didn’t have to wait long to get her answer. I don’t think she was quite expecting the answer she ended up receiving, or at least for it to be delivered so, um, energetically, but she didn’t seem too flustered by the surprise. Carissa wiped her mouth mischievously on Emily’s debutante ball gown - this was presumably how Monica Lewinsky got into such trouble - and smiled demurely as I offered my thanks.

“Easiest way out is through her window,” she murmured, apparently speaking from experience.

We struggled back into our clothes in the tight confines of the wardrobe, then tiptoed across the carpet, opened the outward-hinging window, and slipped out into the night. She didn’t even look back to say goodbye.

I decided to keep my evening’s intrigues to myself. Who in Super Dave’s Jesus cunting fuck would believe me? I had trouble doing so myself. So when the Jeff asked what I’d been up to when I stumbled in to find the boys having a quiet beer and watching Premier League football on Super Dave’s Foxtel, I said I’d been up to nothing much.

Sure you have,” remarked McCarthy. “Got dressed in a rush, did we? In the dark, perhaps?”

“No… why do you say that?” I replied carefully.

“You’ve got your shirt on inside out,” he said.

And Sydney being the bastard town that it is, needless to say after that amazing couple of hours, I didn’t get so much as a warm handshake for the rest of the trip.

Take that as you will.