TED MULRY'S WET DREAM

Nicki Clarke 

When I was 17 my best friend and I used to go to the Ferntree Gully 
Hotel every Friday night. We'd hitchhike back to Glen Waverly in the 
early hours of the morning, walking drunkenly in giggling 
camaraderie down long stretches of dark road. 

One night two young men picked us up who decided it would be good 
fun to go to Skyhigh Lookout at Mt. Dandenong. When we got there, 
the four of us got out of the car, and my friend went off with one 
of the guys. I stood with the other, the driver, looking down at the 
lights of the city, so far away.

"It would take ages to walk from here."

His meaning was clear.

In the car, my feet braced against the dashboard, he berated me for 
my passivity. I was not getting into it. I was not a party girl 
after all.

"Move like ya mean it."

My friend and the other guy returned. She complained about having 
gravel stuck in her bum.

The speedo hit 130k going down the mountain and I was sure we would 
die. He struck a bargain; he would slow down if I would suck his 
dick. I willed myself not to bite. Terror kept my mouth rigid and my 
lips clamped around my teeth.

They let us out at a servo in Glen Waverly. As we walked away, the 
driver wound down his window and yelled,

"What's ya name again? Can I have your number?"

There's no moral to this story.

Draw your own conclusions.