Puberty Blues (6 page)

Sue and I were desperate romantics. We were always trying to get the boys to say what they said on
Number 96…

‘It's you! You're the one!'

‘Kiss me … Kiss me, darling.'
(heavy passionate breathing)

‘
And when we get older, there'll be just you and me. Forever … Together.'

The most we ever got out of Danny and Garry was an occasional grunt and a friendship ring.

To encourage them a little, I put on our favourite single, ‘Tickle Me', by Pat Boone. Everyone else left the room. We were with our boyfriends … alone.

With the help of half a dozen cans of beer, Sue and I induced them to tickle us on the floor.

‘Oh! Danny! Don't!'

‘Stop it Garry!' Giggle, giggle, giggle.

We writhed and squirmed in delight on the shaggy carpet.

Danny leant down and whispered in Susan's ear. ‘Comin' upstairs?'

‘Whadaya want?'

‘A root.'

‘I'll think about it.'

So she thought about it. She rolled over next to the speaker and with Deep Purple blaring down her earhole, she thought about it.

‘Comin'?' He led her by the hand up the stairs and into Garry's bedroom.

He undid her black cords. He unbuckled his belt. He lay on top of her, and snorted. She tensed as his hand slid under the elastic of her best underpants. The room was silent. Danny knew two things about making love. Tits here. Cunt there. You make a grab at one, then a dive for the other.

Suddenly it was all too much for her. She collected all her morals and movie lines.

‘Is that all you want?' She jumped up, zipping her fly. ‘Huh? … Ar … Na.'

I had been lurking around outside in the corridor. ‘What happened?' I asked as Sue rushed by.

‘Nuthin'.'

‘Tell me.'

‘I'll tell ya later.'

Garry led me into his room. He turned off the light and we lay on the already dishevelled bed.

‘Can I?'

‘No. I'm on m' rags.'

I wasn't, but it was a good excuse.

I met Sue in the TV room.

‘What happened? asked Sue.

‘Nuthin'.'

‘Tell me.'

‘Nuthin'.' I replied.

‘Well, didja?'

‘What?'

‘Didja let him?'

‘Did
you
?' I retorted.

‘Na. He only wants me for one thing. He's a user.'

‘Oh, he is not. What about the ring?'

‘What about
your
ring?'

‘Oh look, he roolly loves you. He's stoked in ya. No bull. Kim was tellin' Cheryl the other day that Danny told Dave that he's gettin' ya an engraved bracelet.'

‘Oh, deadset?'

‘Yeah, deadset.'

‘I'd better make up,' Sue softened.

‘Yeah. He's rapt in ya.'

‘Yeah?'

‘Ya gonna let him now?'

‘I dunno. I'm sick of it. What if I get pregnant?'

‘Ya
won't
. Ya can only get pregnant on the days ya
got ya rags. Trace told me.'

We never thought much about getting pregnant. We didn't know anything about it. We didn't do sex in science till third form. It was too heavy to
really
think about. It just made good gossip when a girl disappeared from school for a few days. ‘Don't tell anyone, but Tracey …' It was okay if a top surfie chick had an abortion. She handled it and never talked about it. That made her even cooler. But if a moll had one everybody knew and she was always crying. That made her even slacker.

ALL our attempts at romance failed miserably and the only time we ever got close to our boyfriends was when they were on top of us panting. It was hopeless from the beginning, but we kept trying. We lived for those boys. Up till Wednesday of every week, we talked about what we did on the weekend and after Wednesday, talked about what we were going to do the next weekend. Which was exactly the same as the last.

Every home science lesson, Mrs Simmons would be up the front talking about sautéeing onions and washing the glasses first, and all the surfie chicks would be up the very back in a whispering cluster.

‘I went down Garry's on Friday night …'

‘Yeah? You allowed?'

‘Bloody oaff. It's unroole down there. There's a snooker table and a pool … Garry's gunna teach
me how to play …' Giggle giggle.

‘Yeah. Garry's really good to ya.'

‘… and there's a caravan out the back with two beds in it … hee, hee, hee … and we just got so drunk last Sat'dy night on Brandivino.'

‘Deadset?'

‘Yeah, it was unroole.'

‘Wadja Mum say?'

‘Nuffin'. She never knew.'

‘Yeah, you're really lucky Garry wouldn't take advantage of you in a situation like that.'

‘Mmmm … It's his birfday this weekend. Gonna cook him a cake. In a heart shape. Pink, ya reckon?'

‘Oh perf …'

‘
You
girls up the back! What could you be talking about
now
?'

‘Cooking cakes, Miss.'

We all invariably got sent out into the corridor but it didn't matter 'cause we just carried on the conversation out there. That's all we did at school: talk about the weekends. And our weekends meant boys. We talked about them behind our text books in maths. Running around the oval in PE. In a big group on wooden seats at lunchtime. On the way home in the bus. And when you got home, you'd ring up your girlfriend when you were supposed to be doing your geography essay—to talk about them.

‘Guess what?'

‘What?'

‘Didja hear about Trace?'

‘Nu.'

‘Johnno dropped her.'

‘Deadset? Why? They've been goin' round together for heaps.'

‘She was two-timin' him last Friday night with Deak.'

‘Oh, what a slack-arse. She's gonna get a bad name.'

‘Yeah, reckon. Johnno found out and dropped her.'

‘Moll.'

The boys could screw as many molls as they liked during the week. No one cared very much about that. We all thought they were dogs. But if any of us girls ‘got it off' with another boy, we were immediately dropped. We learnt to fuck just enough not to be called slack or tight.

‘What about the ring?'

‘She's keepin' it.'

‘Oh what a weak act.'

‘Yeah reckon. That's what Kim told her. Now Dave wantsa go roun' with her.'

‘Deadset? What about Cheryl?'

‘Oh, she's gonna crack … Hey don't tell Trace I told ya but.'

‘Oh, okay. Didja hear about Frieda Cummins? Small moll …'

‘Ssshh, hang on. Mum's coming … Ah … Does rice grow in the Riverina?'

‘
What?
'

 

There were a lot of molls where we grew up. They grovelled around with their pants off under the bowling-alley—in the dark and dirt and spider webs; in the cold, damp caves at Cronulla Beach; in the prickly lantana bushes down the paddock and on the grotty banks of the Georges River behind the Ace of Spades Hotel.

If you were overweight, pimply, a migrant, or just plain ugly, you couldn't get a boyfriend. If you couldn't get a boyfriend, there were two options. You could be a prude or a moll. Being a prude was too boring. If you were a moll, at least people knew who you were. Like Frieda Cummins. She was fat, untanned with red hair and freckles. To make it worse, she was a Pom. Most of her time she spent flat on her back.

Gang bangs usually happened on rainy days, or when the surf was no good. The boys were bored. They weren't seeing their girlfriends till that night. They were restless. All that energy they usually expelled ripping into right-handers and carving into tubes was bottled and bubbling at the brim. Like the day they got Frieda. It was raining. The surf was flat. Nothing much was happening …

‘Hey. Check out that chick.'

‘Oh …' moaned Johnno, ‘Dog-eat-dog.'
^*

‘Hit the brakes, Gull. It's Cummins.'

Slouching down the footpath, in a big grey raincoat, was Frieda Cummins. Johnno wound down the window.

‘Eh! Feel like comin', Frieda?'

‘Ha, ha, ha, ha …' Wayne jabbed him.

‘Shut up,' he whispered. ‘Where ya goin', Frieda?'

‘Home.'

‘Wanna lift?'

She jumped in the car without hesitation. A chance to be with the boys! ‘Gee, they must really like me.'

‘You gunna drive me home? Yews can come in if ya like.'

‘Sure Fried … Just gotta drop in at my place for a minute.'

Back at Seagull's place, Wayne led her off to the bedroom. She couldn't believe it. This was beyond her wildest dreams. Wayne Wright. He was the top surfer. It had taken two months for Cheryl Nolan to get him. Now she was with him, alone …

Outside the boys were fighting over who was going next. Wayne came out. Johnno went in. Followed by Seagull. And then Dave Deakin. And then Jacko. And Danny. Then Boardie. Steve Strachan arrived late.

‘I'm not goin' fuckin' slops.'

It didn't matter to Frieda. She couldn't feel it any more. She'd done everything. Maybe now they'd let her in the gang.

Frieda finally staggered out of the bedroom.

‘You gunna drive me home now, Gull?'

He sniggered. ‘Rack off moll. No fuckin' way.'

She walked through the kitchen, her raincoat still dripping.

‘See ya
slut
.' Jacko thumped her hard on the back.

Strack fetched one up his throat, aimed, and a big yellow slag hit the back of her grey raincoat.

The thing is, she always came back for more.

Sometimes the boys had to use more subtle tactics. Like one night down at the pub. There were a few strangers there including one giggly little Bankie chick. The boys thought she looked like an easy lay, so they buttered her up by teaching her how to play pool. She wasn't that easy though. Steve Strachan offered to drive her home to Bankieland. He thought there must be a vacant lot or a deserted alley between Sylvania and Burwood.

‘You won't do nuffin', will ya?' she asked. ‘Like ya won't take advantage of me?'

They drove off. All the boys were in the back of the panel van.

‘I used to be a naughty girl,' she said, ‘but I'm not anymore.'

Halfway down the highway, they turned down a dark street.

‘Where yas goin'?' she asked, anxiously.

‘Stop the car Strack!' demanded Gull, leaning over the front seat. ‘Now, get out!'

‘What's goin' on?' the girl squeaked.

‘Shut ya face or you'll get it too.'

And here's where the play-acting began. Strack got Gull and the rest of the boys to bash him up against the car and act as though they were really punching the shit out of him.

‘No!' he shouted, as his head supposedly hit the metal. ‘I won't let yas root her!'

They thumped, kicked and bashed the car while Steve made convincing noises. ‘Ow!' ‘Fuck off!' choke … gasp … groan …

Then she, from inside the van, moved by his heroism, cried, ‘Don't hurt him. I'll root yas all. Leave him alone.'

And that was that.

I was down the Alley one day, checking out the guys who were checking out the surf. Skinny Lorraine Peck staggered around the corner. She was pale, and tottering along the footpath. She collapsed outside the milk bar.

I jumped up to go over to her. My boyfriend grabbed me fiercely by the arm. ‘Don't get involved.'

‘But she's hurt!'

‘She's just a fuckin' moll.'

A group of boys gathered around her. The same boys that had ‘gone through' her the night before. She lay there moaning, clutching her stomach and writhing on the cement. They nudged and prodded her with their thonged feet.

A moll was just a lump of meat with a hole in it—and that's how they were treated. At least I got a ring.
Friday and Saturday nights the boys went on their milk run. They watched TV until Mrs Dixon went to sleep and then sneaked down to the garage. There they waited for a big truck to come rumbling down the highway and under its noisy camouflage, rolled Danny's mother's Datsun down the driveway. And it was off to Sylvan Headlands at a hundred miles per hour, at three in the morning. Sometimes they picked up Johnno and Dave on the way.

They cruised Sylvania Waters and Sylvan Headlands, the richest areas where some people were foolish enough to leave out two weeks' worth of milk money. They tore up the cheques. The car jingled its way along with heaps of twenty cent pieces.

They didn't' have much to spend their money on. Marijuana wasn't in yet, heroin unheard of, and alcohol an occasional treat when a big brother was obliging. So of an afternoon when we wanted to find the boys we mosied along up to the Arizona Milk Bar. There they'd be, feeding their twenty cent pieces into the pinball machines.

‘Give us a game,' we whined.

‘Ping off, I'm up to seventeen thousand, five hundred and forty.'

After the boys had a particularly successful haul, they sometimes gave us one of their free games. One flicker each. We always lost, and went back to slouching over the pinball machine, watching them rip.

 

One night, on the milk run, when all the guys had had a turn at driving, Danny and Greg sneaked the car back into the garage, called Sandy the dog, and headed off for Sue's place. I was staying the night.

Sue and I were fast asleep in our best nighties. We lay cuddled up in Sue's bed. I awoke with a start. There were little drops of cold water all over my face Splat. Splish. I looked up to the window and there were two blond heads peering through the flyscreen. How romantic. They were flicking the slimy fish pond water all over us.

‘They're here,' I gasped into Sue's ear.

‘Huh?'

‘They're here. It's them.'

Sue pulled the blankets over her head.

‘The door's open!' I hissed out the window.

They tip-toed in past Mrs Knight's bedroom.

‘Come on. Get out,' Danny ordered, nudging me with his foot.

‘No. It's too cold,' I whined, clinging on to Sue. Sue lay silent.

‘Come on.' He kicked me out of bed. I thumped on to the floor.

Garry and I camped in the corner of the room with the dog.

‘I'm freezin',' I complained.

Danny, very generously, chucked over a blanket. Garry and I huddled up on the floor. Danny proceeded to really wreck the bed. Instead of climbing under
neath the blankets, he pulled them all out and lay them on top of him. The room was silent, exceept for the sound of Danny unbuckling and unzipping.

He pulled up Susan's little blue Woolworth's nightie, pulled down her fake, leopard-skin underpants and jabbed it in. Pop. Shove. Pop. Shove. Well, at least Danny would have another mark in Jacko's screwing competition. In Jacko's drawer, pinned to the wood, was a piece of paper with all the boys' names on it. Johnno, Dave, Wayne, Danny, Gull, Hen and Strack. After each conquest they got a tick next to their names. Danny didn't want to come last.

Garry was trying to score.

‘Can I?'

‘No. I can't. I'm on m' rags.'

Garry was beginning to think I had a 365-day period.

Hours later, I woke up. The sunlight was streaming through the window. I felt stiff and cold and realised I was on the floor. Then I saw Garry. I looked up frantically and there was Danny.

‘
Shit!
Garry! Wake up!'

‘
Huh?
'

‘Danny! Danny!
Danny!
' Boy, he was dense. ‘It's morning.' I jumped up and kicked Danny out of bed.

‘Huh? What?' groaned Danny, rubbing his eyes.

‘Sssh!'

Sue rolled over and pulled the blankets over her head.

‘Hurry.' I was madly organising them out the door. ‘Hurry.'

‘What about me fongs?'

‘Look under the blanket …'

Finally they left. Danny yawning and Garry hobbling along beside him.

I crawled into bed with Sue.

‘
Bbbrrringgg
!' Mrs Knight's alarm went off in the room next door.

 

The only way you knew you were someone's girlfriend was because he'd root you every weekend.

It was different for me and Garry. After a while, we really started to like each other. I didn't have to pay off my friendship ring—he gave it to me 'cause we really were friends. We rushed to meet each other at lunchtime, sent each other notes, talked on the phone every night and gave each other birthday presents. The olds just couldn't handle it.