44 lines
1.3 KiB
Plaintext
44 lines
1.3 KiB
Plaintext
TED MULRY'S WET DREAM
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Nicki Clarke
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When I was 17 my best friend and I used to go to the Ferntree Gully
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Hotel every Friday night. We'd hitchhike back to Glen Waverly in the
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early hours of the morning, walking drunkenly in giggling
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camaraderie down long stretches of dark road.
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One night two young men picked us up who decided it would be good
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fun to go to Skyhigh Lookout at Mt. Dandenong. When we got there,
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the four of us got out of the car, and my friend went off with one
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of the guys. I stood with the other, the driver, looking down at the
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lights of the city, so far away.
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"It would take ages to walk from here."
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His meaning was clear.
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In the car, my feet braced against the dashboard, he berated me for
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my passivity. I was not getting into it. I was not a party girl
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after all.
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"Move like ya mean it."
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My friend and the other guy returned. She complained about having
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gravel stuck in her bum.
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The speedo hit 130k going down the mountain and I was sure we would
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die. He struck a bargain; he would slow down if I would suck his
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dick. I willed myself not to bite. Terror kept my mouth rigid and my
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lips clamped around my teeth.
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They let us out at a servo in Glen Waverly. As we walked away, the
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driver wound down his window and yelled,
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"What's ya name again? Can I have your number?"
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There's no moral to this story.
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Draw your own conclusions.
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