MY bride-to-be, Mary-Ann, came to see me one hot day with the sun shining nicely, and with her 38-inch D cup bosom practically spilling out of this little low-cut white affair. I told her to cover herself. I was wearing my white short pants ‘Sportsgirl size 14’ and my happiness at seeing her was becoming quite evident.
A man who has been incarcerated for some time will often spring to life with a visit from the fairer sex.
I don’t know why, but the conversation turned to sex and the adventures of my youth. Mary-Ann loves my yarns and sits there big-eyed demanding that I regale her with some tall tales and true from the bag full of comic yarns I carry with me wherever I go.
I was a late bloomer sex wise. I didn’t actually trouble the scorer until I was 18 years old, although I gave him writer’s cramp once I worked out what to do with the bat.
As I’ve mentioned before, the young lady concerned was a chesty little policeman’s daughter. Skinny as a rake, big tits and a Shirley Temple face. Quite gorgeous.
The most embarrassing events of my then somewhat limited and sheltered sex life happened at the age of 19. It was late at night and summer time, and me, Dave the Jew, another chappie and a fellow called Punchy were in the Melbourne Cemetery target shooting or test-firing a home-made silencer that Punchy had made to fit any hand gun at all. It was an ingenious device which involved a ten-inch length of hose, a jam tin and wire wool.
I won’t say more than that, as I wouldn’t want some kiddies to try it at home, but it worked quite well. There was a wee bit more to it than the length of hose, jam tin and wire wool, but I will leave that topic alone. I’m not one to promote crime.
The bloke whose name I don’t want to remember brought his best-looking sister with him. That is, ‘best-looking’ if a wanton nymphomaniac with bleached blonde hair, black lipstick and eye shadow, and who at night looked like Dracula’s girlfriend, is your idea of a good time. Which, at the time, was exactly what I did think. For me, at 19, anything that moved and didn’t shave was considered a red-hot opportunity.
She had big tits and always wore a short skirt, platform cork-soled shoes and little white bobby socks with a white tee shirt, and a tight cardigan. A real sharpie chick. The dress was held up, or so it appeared, by a set of her grandad’s braces or suspenders. She looked a sight but the sluttish look, dirty girl face, short skirt and big tits were always a winning formula with any red-blooded male aged between 12 and 20. She and her mates were the height of fashion where I came from.
Mind you, she had her standards. She used to claim that she always said no to Abos and policemen, and she was proud of that claim to fame. ‘I have never turned it on for a Coon or a copper’, she would boast with pride and push her chest out as a sort of challenge, for anyone to prove her wrong. Personally, I always found this attitude a trifle intolerant, not to mention racist, but you could fully understand her attitude to police.
Anyway, I am yet again wandering off the track. Sorry. It was 1974, I was 19, and the girl in question was 17.
To cut a short story even shorter, the winner of the night-time target shooting contest got to plonk the girl, who loved guns and had sneaked over to spy on us. We caught her and as a result she agreed to act as the winning prize. I won the contest, a beer bottle at 20 paces by the light of the full moon, which is not a bad shot with a .38 calibre revolver. I was always a good shot when the pressure was on. Just ask Sammy the Turk. (I forgot, you can’t. Poor Sammy is dead, care of a shotgun blast in the left eye at the Bojangles Nightclub carpark. I stood trial for murder over that, but the good sense of the Supreme Court jury accepted my plea of self-defence.)
Anyway, the girl was five foot six tall and in a five-inch high set of platform soles was almost my height. She stood there with one foot up on a grave and lifted her short skirt, her legs were quite apart in a standing position and no panties were evident. There were a few extra stiffs in the graveyard that night, I can tell you.
She then said, ‘Come on Chopper, hurry up.’ That was her battle cry, ‘hurry up’. It was a bit awkward and bloody embarrassing. I was doing my best not to appear self-conscious, but I can tell you I was very nervous.
The girl, bless her soul, was giving me a gentle helping hand and next thing you know it was all over before it even got started. ‘Shit,’ yelled the lassie, ‘all down my bloody leg, you messy bugger!’
God, I felt like a fool. Then her brother made the mistake of laughing at me and yelled, ‘You are a bit quick out of the starting gate, Chopper.’
‘Ha,’ she said, quick as lightning, ‘you can talk.’ We all looked at the brother. It was dark, but I swear we could all see his face going bright red in the moonlight.
Dave the Jew called the chap in question a dirty bastard then the brother pleaded it only happened once. ‘Yeah,’ said the girl, ‘once a week.’ My own sexual embarrassment in the face of my friends was wiped out by the deep, dark family secret that our little mate was plonking his sister. And it wasn’t even Tassie, the home of close family ties.
At four foot eleven inches tall he must have stood on a fruit box to do the job, like a fox terrier humping a labrador. ‘I’m going to break your jaw,’ he said to his sister.
‘Yeah, go on and I’ll tell Grandad you’ve been getting up me,’ she said.
All in all, it was the most embarrassing sexual night of my then young life, and one I will never forget.
Mary-Ann thought it was the height of good comedy. Most Tasmanian girls think any yarn relating to brothers plonking their sister is funny. Ha ha.