Notes From A Tilt Train

“White or wholemeal?” she asked.

For a moment, the question confounded me. My mind jumped to a third option, wholegrain, for that was my preference when eating bread. I hate the dryness of wholemeal, and I’ve relegated white bread to an unsavoury category fit only for children and idiotic, uncultured adults.

I chose white. What does that say about me?

As she bent down to fetch the pre-prepared, neatly packaged curried egg and lettuce sandwich – from which I would remove the curry powder, were such an option available – I cast my eyes across her compact workspace.

As food and beverage attendant on a Tilt Train, space was at a premium. Everything she required to perform her job was within reach, within a few metres, and securely sealed behind an impressive array of doors, cupboards and drawers. Briefly, I admired whichever nameless designer had determined how to fit it all in.

I noticed a sign which read ‘3POC’. This, too, confounded me. An advertisement for 2pac’s long-lost rapper cousin, perhaps? Then I saw more words that helped to decode those four characters.

‘3 points of contact at all times’, the sign demanded. I immediately realised that my points of contact numbered just two. A dangerously low number of points, I thought.

As if on cue, the carriage gave a violent jolt, propelling my upper body forwards. I instinctively raised my hands, so as to avoid falling into this woman’s already space-restricted workspace. The two rings on my fingers simultaneously tapped against the plastic wall. I glanced at her to see if she’d noticed. She hadn’t, but she was returning my way.

“Anything else, darl?” she queried, while she entered the sandwich purchase into her touchscreen console. I looked to my left at the menu, though I already knew what I wanted. I was stalling.

I wanted a sausage roll, inexplicably, but I’ve long harboured the opinion that this choice is perceived to be far less masculine than a meat pie.

I recall my addiction to the sausage roll – the ‘safe option’ – throughout my childhood, even after my older brother had discovered meat pies. I did not want this woman to judge me as anything less than a complete, fully-functioning man, as I had hopefully appeared to her up until this moment.

Throwing caution to the wind, I replied: “A sausage roll, thanks.”

She did not judge my decision; if she did, she hid it well.

The next question concerned the choice of accompanying sauce. Again, there were just two options: tomato or barbecue. This reply required no deliberation at all.

“What kind of a faggot would pick BBQ?” I wondered, as I chose tomato. Even the ordering of her question hinted at this outcome. Tomato in first place, for winners; BBQ dead last, for losers.

The total cost of this 30 second transaction was $8. As I handed over a $20 note and waited for my change, I realised that this woman appeared to have comped me the sauce. This elated me, as every other food outlet in this country charges 20, 30, or even – heaven forbid – 50 cents for the simple pleasure of a sauce to accompany one’s baked good.

This has always struck me as cuntish behaviour of the worst kind, as the concept of eating a sausage roll – or, for the more masculine among us, a meat pie – without sauce is obscene. A freakish anomaly. The very thought turns my stomach, as does the national concept of charging extra for such a base necessity.

I was thankful for her gesture. I took my change, smiled at her, and returned to my seat. Perhaps the gesture came from on high. Perhaps it was a company-wide policy to comp squeeze-on sauce packets. Maybe the Queensland Rail CEO, like me, abhorred the practice of charging for sauce.

This thought thrilled me. A shared interest with the head of QR? Perhaps I could secure an interview with him on this basis alone. Still, upon consuming both items – edible, certainly, though neither snack was memorable beyond the minutes I spent consuming them – I had to know: had she charged me, or not?

With a sense of trepidation, I took out the menu from the seat pocket before me. The sandwich cost $4.50; the sausage roll, $3.50.

This equalled eight dollars. This made me smile.

Seducing The Runners, Part 1

Some of my friends play social sport in an attempt to stay fit. My heavier girlfriends stay home and guiltily play Wii. A couple even indulge in cocaine binges as soon as they step out of the office, which has the dual advantage of helping them stay thin, and introducing them to rich, greedy, horny men.

Me? I seduce runners.

Perhaps ‘seduce’ isn’t the right word. More accurately, I proposition male runners for sex, mid-workout.

I live in a trendy waterfront apartment across from the city. All day, every day, men and women jog past my apartment. Each locked in their own private, silent battle against themselves, with the goal of losing – or maintaining – weight. Most of their motives, I’ve learned, are rooted in a desire to appeal to the opposite sex.

So, for the men, I came up with my own way of validating their dedication to their bodies. I began offering free fucks. Think of it as a karmic gift, paid in advance.

My favourite part is the introduction. I sit on a bench a few metres from the running path, wearing tight lycra. To observers, it probably looks like I’m taking a rest from my own workout. As men jog by, their eyes are inevitably drawn to me: my big tits, my tight legs, my plump lips. My blonde hair. If we share eye contact, I smile and stand up. Nine times out of ten, the men nearly fall over from the shock of being engaged by someone like me.

I greet them each in the same manner: like I’m meeting an old friend. Big smile – lots of teeth. Hand outstretched. An excited “Hi!”. I skip the pleasantries though; I’m there for a reason. I gesture for them to come closer, and then I cut to the chase. “Can I fuck you?”, I whisper in their right ear.

That’s my second favourite part. Again, the near-universal reaction is one of disbelief. They request confirmation: Pardon me?”. Or: “Are you serious?”. I either repeat the question, or nod my head, while still wearing a wide smile, and looking every bit the dirty slut.

I only ever approach men exercising alone. I’ve never been turned down. My youngest proposition was a mature-looking 12-year-old; when I was done with him, he nearly passed out from the sensation of experiencing his first orgasm while five inches deep inside me. The oldest man I’ve approached had just celebrated his sixty-first birthday. He didn’t last long, but throughout our brief intercourse, I was preoccupied with how I’d go and explaining the situation to the police if he died in my apartment, mid-coitus.

Once they accept my offer – and they always do – I immediately turn and start walking to my apartment block. We share the lift to the eighth floor. I make no small talk; rarely do they. My guess is that they’re still processing their apparent lucky break. The elevator goes “ding!” and the door opens. I lead them into my one bedroom apartment, and shut the door behind us.

I utter a command: “Strip.” They do.

Twelve hundred and fifty-three pairs of sweaty shorts have hit that same spot in my living room over the past ten months. Some of them are already sporting boners at this point. It’s cute.

I often need to encourage them: “The underwear, too.”

And then, without warning, I bend down and start sucking their cocks.

The taste and scent of male sweat turns me on like nothing else.

A few of my partners have blown their loads within seconds. They each replaced their shorts and left in a hurry, embarrassed, never to be seen again.

But the vast majority of them make it to my bed, where – after the hottest fuck of their lives – they’re soon made aware of the real reason I’m so willing to suck and fuck a sweaty stranger.

Jerry

I leave the office just past 5pm with a destination and a preferred time of arrival in mind. I’ve got to be across town at an old building on the edge of the river within an hour, as I’m meant to be recording the discussion that’s taking place from 6pm. I use the internet to find the nearest transport that’ll take me to my desired location. The web page suggests that I catch a bus from a nearby main road, get off in the city and transfer to a ferry. With this plan in mind, I’m waiting at the bus stop, listening to some music toward which I must form an opinion and write about, for my job.

I’m thinking about the music and the bus being late and the traffic nearby and the twilight when a man walks up to the seat, speaking at me. I remove an earphone and ask him to repeat it.

“Was that the 470?” he asks, gesturing at the bus that just passed.
“No, that was the 475. The 470 is running late.”
“There’s one coming at 5.38.”
“Yeah, but the 5.18 bus hasn’t shown up.”
“Oh, the bastard sometime doesn’t show.”

I’m amused by his thick Scottish accent. My affection for that accent is second only to a strong, masculine Irish voice. He barely misses a beat in the conversation, and gestures to my shirt-and-jeans attire.

“So what are you, a student, I guess?”
“No, not any more.”
“Full-time work?”
“Yeah, more or less.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a freelance journalist.”
“Oh, is that like investigative journalism?”
“Kind of. I come up with story ideas and throw them at editors of various publications, and they give me a yes or no in response.”
“If they like it, they send you off to get that story.”
“Yeah, that’s how it works.”

By this point I’ve removed both earphones. The music continues playing, uncaring toward whether it has an audience or not. I’m intrigued by this stranger having a strong concept of what it means to be a journalist, and that he’s pursuing a strong line of questioning not out of courtesy, but genuine interest. It’s at this point when he begins surprising me even more.

He launches into a description of his job as a mineral engineer who inspects holes in the ground for big businesses, to determine whether they’re suitable for mining. I miss a few words due to his thick accent and the nearby traffic noise, but that’s how I understand it. He reveals that he’s 36 years old, single, earns a ‘considerable’ salary for his work, and that he’s done this job all around the world. My city is his favourite. I believe him. He suggests that I don’t know exactly how fortunate I am to be living here, and while he continues talking, I decide that he’s right.

The bus is totally late, and showing no sign of showing up. We both agree that I’m fucked in terms of my appointment, and that I’d be lucky to make it to the venue by half-six. I’m not too concerned, though this stranger seems to be. Perhaps he’s misread how important it is for me to be there in time. I’d like to be there by six – which is why I set out nearly an hour ahead of time to ensure I was there – but although I don’t tell him this, I’m starting to think that this conversation is more valuable to my life experience than missing the opening of a songwriting forum.

He’s still talking. I couldn’t stop him even if I wanted him to – which I don’t. He reveals that he’s about to tell me a story wherein he found happiness while experiencing sadness. I’m staring at him, listening, wondering what’s compelling him to speak so frankly. He tells me that his mother died two weeks ago, in his hometown of Barrhead, Scotland. Last weekend he flew to a southern capital city in an attempt to travel overseas directly, to try and make it to her funeral. As he arrived at the airport, he received notice that all international flights were cancelled, owing to the volcanic activity in Iceland. Dejected, he was flying home and began talking to the woman seated next to him, who he describes as “quite attractive”. He doesn’t describe their conversation mid-flight, but fast forwards to a phone call he received a few days ago. It was from the woman, who’d accessed the airline’s database – I’ve no idea how, and he doesn’t elaborate – in order to find this guy’s personal details. She was calling to ask him on a date.

“No way,” I reply, shocked at this unlikely string of events being related to me by a total stranger. “When are you seeing her?”
“This weekend. We’re having coffee at [the venue I’m intending to visit tonight]. A nice neutral venue, lots of people.. just a coffee.”

He relates little emotion when describing this story, though he is clearly fond of the woman despite her stalker-like tendencies. He acknowledges how odd it is for him to be elaborating on his “life story in five minutes”, though he simply states in response that it’s “just the kind of person I am”. I’m impressed. I realise that he’s only telling me this because he’s lonely. But not a desperate, needy kind of lonely. Instead, it’s a frank, honest exchange – at least on his part. I’ve said hardly anything in the time we’ve been sitting on this bench. He turns the topic once again to my appointment.

“Look, do you want me to pay for your taxi fare there?”
I stare blankly. “You’re serious?” I’m only asking to be polite; I know that he’s serious. He doesn’t seem the kind of man to make such an offer without an intention to follow through.
“Sure.”
“No, it’s fine. I don’t want to put you out.”

He accepts my dismissive response. He probably expected as much. But while we sit in momentary silence, staring in the same direction toward a bus that isn’t arriving, a taxi appears directly across from our seat. Its light is on. It’s vacant, and it’s stationary at traffic lights. He gestures toward it. I stand up. I get the taxi driver’s attention by acting out the question: “Can we jump in?” The driver nods, so we hurry over.

I can’t believe this is happening. I’m simply going with the flow, wondering where this will take me. I consider that this guy could be fucking insane and taking me back to his lair with untold acts in mind. Right now I’m like a child lured into a vehicle by the promise of candy, yet I’m entering into this situation as a mature adult with full awareness of what might perspire. This shit does not happen every day, so I’m just going with it.

As it turns out, the taxi ride is largely uneventful. The driver’s presence and my location in the backseat seem to kill the conversational chemistry that we had clocked up in the fifteen minutes we’d spent in each others’ presence. The driver is an immigrant, and a quiet one at that, so there’s little interest there. During the story about the woman on the plane, he mentioned the name Jerry. I take a stab.

“Your name’s Jerry, isn’t it?
“Yep.”
“What are you up to tonight, Jerry?”
“Well, besides meeting up with a friend at my place, nothing.”
“Cool.”
“Do you think I should just tell him to come to the venue?”
I’m initially flummoxed that he’d rely on my input for such a complex question – I don’t know anything about his friend, their likes or dislikes, or their previous plan – before I realise that hey, this is just the kind of guy that Jerry is.
“Sure,” I reply.

He calls his friend and tells him of the change in plans. There’s no problem. I get the feeling that Jerry doesn’t have many problems. And I don’t mean that facetiously; he clearly has his head screwed on straight. He’s an engineer, so he’s very logical. It seems that to him, things are black or white. Grey areas don’t figure into his calculations.

Despite the traffic, we make it to the venue with one minute to spare, no shit. According to the taxi’s clock, it’s 5.59. He’s enquiring whether I’m ready to make a quick exit into the venue; I respond, “Dude, I’m not in that big of a hurry. I’ll wait to walk with you.”

He pays the fare – $20.70 – and we walk together.

“Well, I did my best to get you here in time.”
“Jerry, your best is amazing.”

We walk into the venue. I point out the section of the building where I’m headed. He wishes me a good night. I offer my hand while thanking him sincerely. Without breaking stride, he shakes my hand and states it’s no problem. We part ways, strangers once more. It’s unlikely we’ll meet again, yet I’ve nothing but respect and admiration for Jerry. He’s a real man.

Knife Prty

It’s just past eight in the morning as I leave my girlfriend’s unit. Ten minutes earlier she shook me awake, saying she’d slept in and that she had to go to uni real soon. Groggily, I got up and headed for the toilet. It’s housed within the most claustrophobic bathroom I’ve ever shat in; to make matters worse, the light switch is connected to the exhaust fan, so as soon as I flick it on, I’m subject to a low-pitched mechanical whining. Just what I need when I’m trying to shit in peace!

I get most turds out, but not all. There’s no time to hang around waiting for round two, however, so I wipe, wash hands, and head for the door. We kiss goodbye out on the pavement, she heading for the bus, while I head for home a couple of blocks down.

Just before we left, she returned to me a knife borrowed last week, to cut an orange while working her job at a bottle shop. Turns out it wasn’t a necessary loan, as she bought a mandarine. So once we part company, I cross the road and I realise I’m holding a knife outwards. Suggestively.

As I pass a couple of garbage truck operators rummaging through bins, I consider gutting the one who’s bent over head-first into a bin. Just a quick slice down his ribcage would be enough to put him off guard. I’d turn his wounded, screaming mass over and cut directly through the high-visibility vest, ignoring his intestines and going straight for the delicious kidneys.

I keep walking. The bloodlust passes. I rearrange the knife so that I hold its handle while the serrated blade rests against my inner wrist. Look up “concealed weapon” in any dictionary and you’d find a picture of me, at 8.15am in the morning, walking proud and daydreaming of cutting bitches.

A man appears before me on the footpath. He seems disadvantaged in terms of his stature and weight. The dude looks severely undernourished; the width of his calves are comparable to my forearms. Yet, observing his hunched-over shuffle, I consider that he might be homeless. He shoulders a bag that could contain his life’s possessions.

This one would be piss-easy. The guy seems so far down on his luck already that he’d welcome my maniacal thrusts into his chestal region. He’d forego the drama usually associated with cold-blooded murder – howls of pain, screams of protest, cries for help – and look up into my eyes, silently thanking me for ending his aimless journey across earth’s surface. A few good jabs later, I’d remove the knife from his heart, wipe it on his jacket and continue walking. Given how little people care for the plight of the homeless, I imagine his body would stay there for weeks until devoured by the local possum population. Suited businessmen on the way to work would step over his worthless body while on the phone to their slutty call-girls, barely acknowledging this man’s once-existence.

The daydream’s over by the time I’m standing outside my house. I press the electronic device that controls my garage door. A couple of middle-aged women standing nearby make surprised noises. I think they’re new to my building. I’ve never really made the effort to get to know my neighbours.

One of the women – the plumper, less attractive one – says something about how their garage door isn’t connected to an electronic opener. Whatever. Me, all I’m thinking about his heading upstairs and taking care of defecation 2.0. She asks to take a quick look inside my garage to compare to hers. Again – whatever.

She steps inside my garage, peering up at the ceiling. In that moment, I realise what I must do. I must remove her throat. In one foul swoop, I disconceal the blade and introduce it to the women’s sizeable windpipe. From this distance, I can see how heavily made-up she is, in an effort to cover her unattractive, ageing physical features. As I cut through the trachea, I’m ignoring her friend’s screaming and thinking about how much time she wasted this morning applying chemicals and colours to her face, only to be murdered a few metres away from where she sleeps.

She’s stopped struggling by now, as I reach the front of her neck. Rivers of blood run across my garage floor out into the common area, yet strangely, I’m completely untouched by the red liquid. Man, my housemates are not going to be happy with this mess. Or the dead fat woman. I press the button that closes the garage door, and calmly head for the toilet to evacuate my bowels for the second time in ten minutes.

You know what’s fucked up? She was on my property, and since I can afford a hot-shot lawyer, he successfully argues that my heinous act was in self-defense. We pay off the only witness, the fatty’s best friend of 25 years; I end up boning her upstairs, while her friend lies dead as fuck on my garage floor. Good times.

Great With Kids

Sunday afternoon. I’m at Danny Baker’s place for a barbeque. I brought some chicken satay skewers and a carton of VB. Fuck yes. I am single and looking to mingle!

It’s a diverse crowd. He’s a comedian, so he has friends across the city. Around 50 of them are here today, adults and children.

I’m mostly shitfaced when we sit down at Danny’s enormous outdoor table to eat. All afternoon, between slugging down stubbies of Victoria’s finest, I’ve had my eye on one apparently-single blonde. She’s wearing a pink sundress that shows too much leg and not enough snatch, and fuuuck I would slay that.

We’re sitting across from each other at the table. We haven’t spoken yet. I pass her the salad, and she smiles a sweet little cocksucking smile. Or at least, in my arseholed state, that’s how I interpret it.

The kids are at the far end of the table babbling about some bullshit. She makes some comment to the guy next to me – the one who’s been playing hide-and-seek and drawing pictures for the little fuckers all afternoon – about how great he is with kids.

A great joke comes to mind. In an instant, I’m on my feet, before I know what I’m doing. I belch.

“So am I!” I declare. “I’m fucking great with kids!”

I accidentally lurch forward, splashing beer all over my plate. I compose myself, and pause for maximum comedic effect.

“I can make most of them cum within five minutes!”

And I wonder why my friends stop inviting me to their barbeques.

A Smiling Child

I’m standing in the supermarket line, anonymously staring into oblivion, when a mother and child walk into view. The woman waves at the man in front of me – one of those cute little waves where the hand is held upright and repeatedly folded in half – and points him out to the child at her side.

Damned if the kid – who can’t be older than two, dressed in a striped shirt and denim shorts – doesn’t light up at the sight of his father. “Daddy!” he yells with joy.

He starts running at the man. Tiny little legs wearing tiny little shoes pound across the brightly-lit supermarket, while the people all around me go about their business. I’m the only one witnessing this interaction, the only one paying it any mind. It’s not important at all, but then, why the fuck am I smiling like an idiot?

By now the kid’s in his father’s arms, perched on his right forearm, wiggling and giggling excitedly. The female clerk is smiling at the boy, and still I stare, lips curled upwards. I question myself: why? The answer comes immediately.

It’s because this child, right now, is entirely happy with his life. He’s with his mother and his father and he’s away from home and there are strange people and bright lights and curious beeping sounds and colourful fruit nearby and love and admiration all around him.

I’m smiling because I know there’s no way I – a grown human with thoughts, feelings, responsibilities, concerns, priorities, preconceptions, beliefs, assumptions and prejudices – will ever be able to again feel that kind of unquestioning, all-encompassing happiness.

At any other time of day I’d likely not have noticed this interaction, with a preoccupied mind turning like a rat in a wheel. Or I’d have at once realised the inherent sadness that one’s happiness tends to trend downwards once we hit double digits. But now, after the lunch rush and having spent several hours conversing both in person and online, I’m temporarily at ease with the world around me, and able to dedicate a few minutes’ reflection on the gift of life.

Which is why, standing in a supermarket queue with a bottle of sugar-water in hand, I’m smiling my ass off at this kid who, if only for a moment, is wholly content with himself and his environment. He’s the centre of attention and he’s loved, and that’s all he needs.

The Dog

It was halfway through the third hour that I lost it.

I ripped open my door and charged across the road. I was about to break their window with my elbow when I stopped myself. It looked fearfully at me while continuing to bark without pause. And despite my smoldering rage, I smiled.

Usually my laptop and speakers were the last to be unplugged, but since I was moving cross-state, I had to ship them ahead so that my girl would be set up for my arrival. Which wouldn’t have been a problem; I’m happy to converse with myself in-mind and out-loud. What should’ve been an enjoyable day of self-reflection was instead hijacked by a restless, imprisoned canine.

I know how childish it was. To allow myself to be affected by a lonely animal who knows no right nor wrong. I turned my anger over in my head time and again. I rationalised that my feelings were those of a less intelligent being, responding emotionally to a stimulus. I tried closing the doors and windows while I packed, before berating myself for letting another being dictate my actions.

See, the dog barked throughout each weekday, while its owners were at work. I knew this because I worked from home. Ordinarily, I drowned out its noise with music at high volumes. But since my aural arsenal was disarmed, I was left to rely on a soundtrack of incessant, senseless barking.

I’ve never understood: why do people who aren’t around to care for animals accept ownership? Worse still, why don’t they invest time in training the animal to cope with their absence?

Amid an encompassing sea of rage, that thought floated to the surface: what if they didn’t know? I lowered my elbow. What if the owners didn’t know that their dog barks all day? When they were home, there was no problem. The problem was that no-one told them what happens when they’re not.

Which is why I smiled. Someone had to tell them. And since I was moving out tomorrow, I could be as malicious as I wanted, without bearing witness to the aftermath.

I returned home and took out a notebook. A threat was required. As a screenwriter, I’d always found comedy in having my characters maintain an air of courtesy while delivering hurtful remarks, so I adopted that affectation in my letter.

Pen in hand, I began.

“Dear Sir/Madam: your dog barks all day while you are out.” Straight to the point. Nice.

“This may be of little to consequence to you working-class swine. But for folk who work from home – such as myself – its choice to repeatedly shatter one’s concentration is abhorrent. Respectfully, I request that you teach your animal how to remain quiet or I shall remove its ability to make noise.”

I paused. Fuck it. No time for subtlety. “Just so we’re clear. If you don’t shut your dog up, I’m going to break its legs one-by-one, then stab its throat with a screwdriver.”

Threat delivered. A name was required. “Signed, Mr Fuck.”

I placed the letter in their mailbox and returned to my packing while whistling the Looney Tunes theme, over and over.

Mobile Massage

Are they the most massaged people on earth? Tonight, yes. Four of them were hired to attend to the backs and heads of around a hundred barflies.

By 9pm, they’d already attracted pretty much everyone who wanted a massage, and repelled those who were averse to the idea. And so they resorted to value-adds, since they were paid on a per-massage basis.

You’d be walking to the toilet, and one of them would grab your arm.

“Hey buddy, two quid for a massage? Five quid for happy ending…”

And since you were on the way to the pisser anyway, you figure – why not? If nothing else, it’ll be a funny story to take home. Fifteen awkward minutes later, you power-walk back to your mates, wondering who’s more embarrassed: you, or her?

She returns to her workmates, five quid richer, and rinses her mouth out into the communal spitoon.

And you look around and realise that between them, they’ve blown bar’s entire male population at least once, up to and including the owner.

And you realise that that’s why they’ve contracted four staff for a hundred barflies, because between massaging each other to the point of nausea, they’re earning their keep knees-on-tiles, just fifteen metres away.

I am shocked and appalled!

Greyhound Rape

My pussy aches. The holstered taser presses into my side, and the backup can of mace rattles in my purse. I fucking hate carrying these new precautions, but then, the inconvenience is preferable to a swollen, bloodied snatch.

I pass by a tattered newspaper whose headline brought this improbable epidemic to the fore: “Greyhound Rape Up 29% This Quarter!”

I lied to the shopkeeper, told him the weapons were to protect myself from a persistent ex-boyfriend. Because even with the media attention, who the fuck wants to admit that they were raped by a pack of fucking greyhounds?

What kind of fucked-up city gets into this kind of situation, anyway? Where a girl can’t even walk down the street in broad daylight without weapons? And where the main sex offenders aren’t human, but canine?

I met my new friends Taser and Mace at the local munitions depot earlier today, after I made the mistake of walking home yesterday. How I regret not accepting Michael’s offer for a lift from the office. There was a high likelihood I’d have been molested by that sweaty, balding fuck, too, but at least he’s got two legs and a small cock.

Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to be pack-raped by greyhounds? The clever buggers smelled my menstrual blood a mile away, and followed me down my favourite shortcut alleyway. They launched onto my back to bring me to ground. Two dogs bit off my panties, while another immediately mounted me with its pink, pointy shaft.

Unlike men, I learned, canine cocks don’t become fully erect until just before they ejaculate. So what began pencil-thin eventually became baseball-sized within my beautiful 22 year-old pussy. Shit was weak. I knew there was no point in screaming, as the alpha male stood inches away from my throat throughout, baring its teeth. Oddly, he didn’t fuck me at all; seems I was a tasty treat for his loyal minions.

But the strangest part of the ordeal? None of them made a sound, not even as they each shot ropes of hot greyhound cum deep into my pussy. Again and again I was mounted by the lean animals, until the pack lost interest in my mashed orifice and scampered off, dripping their filthy juices onto the pavement.

Yesterday, I was stupid. Today, I’m ready to tase the fuck out of any wise-ass greyhound who gets within cock’s reach of my delicate genitalia.

Three Young Men

I’m standing in the kitchen of my unit, listening to three 20-year old males interact. They’re home late, or namely, my housemate is: I’d expected him to cook me dinner an hour earlier, given that I’d done the same for him the night before. But he’s here now, and he’s merrily narrating his haphazard beef vindaloo concoction, no doubt buzzing after a few evening beers.

While he cooks, I listen, and occasionally stir. Over on the lounge sit two of my housemate’s friends. I associate them as his friends, as I never voluntarily spend time with them. The closest element of friendship we share is that we’re not enemies.

One of them is a chronically depressed, introverted nerd who has attempted to hide his social awkwardness throughout the three years I’ve known him, yet his efforts seem to fail with increasing frequency. Though he studies engineering at university, I’ve garnered that his interests revolve around computer components and video games. He’s cradling my housemate’s unplugged electric guitar, but it’s more for show than function. He tends to avoid conversation, and instead disassociates himself by staring intently at the television.

The other friend is – without exaggeration – morbidly obese. His girth appears to have remained steady since I’ve known him, but his aversion to exercise and fondness for vast quantities of full-strength beer forecast a zero per cent chance of it ever decreasing. This man also has the unfortunate twin attributes of verbal diarrhea and poor enunciation. This once frustrated me. But as I spent more time in his company, I came to enjoy tuning out to his muddled verbiage; instead, I amuse myself by observing others struggle to keep up. This habit continues throughout our meal preparation: blubber-mouth regularly makes comments over his shoulder, toward the kitchen, to which my housemate constantly begs “hey?!” over the frypan.

We sit down to dinner – they with beer, I with for-quick-sale $2 orange juice – and they begin narrating the cooking show on television. Several times I have to contain myself from bursting out with laughter at the sight of a fat man criticising the cooking skills of the reasonably fit, TV-attractive talents, while knowing full well that he’d consume every ingredient in every dish they’ve ever made if given half a chance. One of the contestants is an overweight mother; a particularly low-shot scene highlights her double-chin, to which the blob on my couch comments, “Ah, the double chin isn’t exactly the best look!”. I nearly choke on my vindaloo, and not from the spice: are you seriously so oblivious to your hypocrisy?

Throughout our shared meal, I learn that the group has plans to reconvene to a nearby pub for the night. In a display of what can only be described as blatant, half-drunken bullying, the heavier of my two guests begins repeatedly asking the nerd whether he’ll be joining them at the pub. The answer is a thrice-repeated, exasperated “no!”, for reasons unclear. What’s clear is that Fatty’s ability to peer-pressure his housemate has long since been rendered useless, yet he continues to taunt his victim in some retarded display of would-be macho dominance. I reflect on the times I’d been in similar situations in the past – pressured to drink while retaining absolutely no desire to – and note that the group seems to have silently declared that I’m a lost cause in that regard. Everything about me – from my general apathetic facade, to my ready-for-bed attire – indicates that any energy spent attempting to convince me to join their binge would be a waste.

Fatty receives a call from their absent housemate, who informs them that he’s just knocked down a tree in their backyard, and would they like to join him for a night of beer and fire-watching? Plans are hastily re-made; it appears as though they’ll be fireside within the hour. But as soon as the phone call ends, each of my three dinner companions begins lambasting their housemate for his general ineptitude, his habit of failing university subjects, and his ongoing relationship woes – the latter of which has been a regular source of amusement throughout his frequent busts and reconciliations with an equally vacuous female.

At first, I’m thinking about how fake these men can be to their friend; again, not my friend, since he’s not a person with which I voluntarily share oxygen. Then I’m thinking about the biggest difference between the ridiculed absentee and these three: namely, the fire-hungry tree-feller has an ability to achieve regular intimacy with women. Upon finishing my bowl, I subtly eye the group, and consider: here’s three men who’ve been placed on this earth ostensibly to reproduce, yet they’re voluntarily spending the night in the company of alcohol and the same sex. This would be less alarming if it wasn’t a decision made with regularity. But here they are, choosing to partake in the same mindless exercise as every other week: beer, bullshit, and no chance of female interaction.

Several questions momentarily occur to me. Where did they go wrong? Who allowed them to make these choices? Or, more accurately, whose absence allowed them to make these choices? When did this become the accepted outcome? When did they resign themselves to an early-twenties life of painful predictability and quiet desperation? What alternative is there to alcohol, with which they choose to hide from themselves their failings as young men?

The answer to the last question is marijuana, and I’ve no doubt that they’ll partake in the consumption of that vice later tonight. But it’s just another excuse, another conscious blindfold to disguise their inner loneliness. As they sit berating actors and filling silence, I wonder if any of them are truly happy. Perhaps in this moment, divorced from the otherwise harsh reality of their utter hopelessness. Perhaps in six beers’ time, when they’re roaring drunk and unable to speak or think coherently.

I wonder what’ll be the catalyst for change, for progression, for maturity. Because central to their social shortcomings is their marriage to the routine, the predicted, the comfortable. And until they each make the effort to step outside of the known, they’ll continue fire-watching, together alone.