Rodeo Penis

I woke up this morning to drunken flashbacks of a six foot dick, me kneeling on the dirty floor of the handycapped washroom with my face positioned over the toilet bowl, and a stylish entrance into the pub which ended with me landing on the floor taking miss I want down with me. It was Sunday night at the Walkabout, and this week, they had the rodeo penis.

"Lets have a Sunday session..." Miss I want said on Friday while her, my Oz roomate and I did a day bus trip around Brighton.
"They're bringing the rodeo penis into the pub this Sunday!!" Oz said and plans were made to get fucked off chops and ride the cock.

(Rodeo Penis: Like a mechanical bull, but a six foot cock).

Miss I want and I ended up in the beer garden to begin our session at 3:00pm, my tips from the night before, weighing my pocket down. We started with chick drinks (not a usual chick drinker myself, I downed them like juice. Two in fifteen minutes). Miss I want then moved onto pints of vodka and vodka cruisers, while we both had toohey's Extra dry and numerous shots. Needless to say, by the time they brought the dick out, we were dundey!!

Oz talked me into jumping on the giant penis, and in my drunken state, I could not decline. Earlier in the evening, despite the warnings from others, I made a sober descision to wear skirt...and so I hopped on the dick, pulling the front of my mini down, and rode around the ring to chants of "show us your pussy!!". Needless to say, because of my need to keep the skirt down, I could not hold on to the shaft of the mighty dick, and got thrown off in no time after Oz yelled at the operator "Spin her around!! Spin her around!!". I can now say that I've ridden the biggest penis in the world.

I then ended up on my hands and knees infront of the toilet in the handicapped washroom retching my guts out. The second time I've ever thrown up from the drink. I can usually hold my drink but because of the fact that I hadn't eaten in almost two days, it didn't work for me last night. In no time, the ten plus drinks that I had managed to down were in the sewer.

Miss I want made a third trip to the ATM and decided to stop for chips and onion rings and then made a date to have coffee with a bum. I thought she had been murdered and went crazy sending her numerous text messages and calling her outside in the beer garden. There was no reply. I then looked through the door into the pub and saw her standing talking to Oz. I ran full tilt into the bar yelling "I thought you were dead I thought you were dead!!!". I ran to give her a hug, but slipped in a puddle right at her feet and fell into her, landing on the ground, her ontop of me. Oz went mad. Laughing for a good five minutes. At least I'm good for something.

I ended up going to bed quite early. It being a Sunday night and all, things shut by 12. I was in bed at about 1:00, all puked out. I woke up this morning and stuck my head around the sheet I have hung around my bottom bunk, and there was Miss I want fast asleep, half naked, her sleeping bag tossed over her, and rich tea buiscuts lying around her. She woke up still pissed at 11am, no recollection of wanting to sleep on the floor, or eating buiscuts.

The one success of the night was this: I finally had a formal introduction to my future husband. Maybe I'll now have the guts to stop him on the stairs in passing, and talk to him??

Blame it on the heat.

I stand overlooking the beach, the peir flashing in the near distance, the rides still open for those who dare -12 year olds out with their friends or else on a first date, or adults with significant others, reminiscing about youth hood.

My clothes are stuck to me from the humidity and I pull my t-shirt away from my back where the sweat has collected. The ocean breeze runs down my spine, not cooling me as for the heat, but relieving me all the same. I stand in my sticky stupour watching the waves break, searching for an answer in their wake, but nothing comes.

An answer to what? I don't know. My head is full of questions but even I am unsure as to what these questions are and must refine them for myself before being able to ask anyone.I feel as though my mind is one big brainstorm. Like when in primary school when your teacher made you do webs. One main central idea or question in a cloud with other smaller related ideas or question branching off and more and more off them and their children. Except that instead of ten breanches and mini webs, there are hundreds and thousands. A tangled mass of miss-communications and ideas. An un-untieable knot. Must find loose end...where?

The central idea in this case being --"WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING HERE??"--

I've been here only 6 weeks and am already feeling restless and trapped. I feel trapped in the hostel, -my own stupidity--no money due to potential alcoholism--feel trapped in the same clothes, day in day out --the repricussions of living out of a backpack--on a night out, nobody ever thinks "hmmm, I wonder what Mix is going to wear tonight?" because they bloody well know the answer --THE SAME DAMN THING SHE WORE LAST TIME!--And, worst of all, I'm feeling trapped in myself. I have found a new meaning tot he expression "bored to death". I have found myself SO bored that killing myself is starting to sound appealing, not because I don't like myself, or my life per say, but because it would be something to do. Out of sheer and utter boredom.

The flames of the beach fires are dancing in the wind and to the sound of bongos and other noise makers and it makes me miss music. Man I want my fiddle. All this energy I have could have gone into some serious practicing instead of walking around in circles. Literally.

I need a joint.

The water is still as glass and it hurts to think that I can't even go and touch the ocean to be connected to my friends and family in the hopes that maybe one of them is swimming at this moment and then would be touching the same water, because it's a different ocean. I am completely unconnected to home except for by a bank account and occasionally a phone line.

I have yet to discover what I am or was (not sure anymore) trying to prove by travelling. "Look mum, I can..." By myself literally without a reminder of home except for some pictures from 1994, I find myself thinking of it (home) 24/7. I woke up yesterday not knowing where I was.

Every morning, I wake up and close my eyes, trying to remember every inch of my house. Every smell, every creaky floor board, the way the cold aluminium of my ladder feels on my fet every morning, the way our phone sounds when it rings and that weird noise I've heard for years in my wall and never been able to figure out what it was. I think about my street and how the blackberries must be beginninhg to show along with the red of the huckleberries, the quiet of my town and how hot it must be and I miss walking in bare feet. I miss event he things I hate. My mum's nagging, the way my cat keeps me up all night, fighting with my briother, and how there is never anything to do. Home is where the heart is, and I've left mine in Roberts Creek along with my violin and my grad jumper.

I always thought that I would have all these amazing stories to tell from my travelling. I always hear about the funny or scary situations people get themselves into in Dehli say, mind you, France andEngland are no India, but the only story I have is about how I stepped in a puddle of piss while running Chuck to the train station --nothing close to a near death experience unless urine and cork thongs have a lethal reaction to one another with delayed effects that I am unaware of. Although this is only the beginning of my travels, I expected to have a little more than a story about pee that I will forget in a year.

I finish my ice cream and want another one instantly but think I will go back to the hostel and have another shower instead and turn around feeling hollow and homesick. Something unfamiliar to me. Me the tough girl who doesn't get attatched, who puts on a smile and just wants everyone to be happy, me who doesn't miss people and places. Should I reveal to them that I truly am a big softy?

Afer a cup of chamomille tea to calm my nerves, I am now sitting on the landing outside our door. My ass is numb from the astro-turf like carpet, and while it has cooled down a bit, it is still humid as. I can hear the city through an open window at the top of the staircase beneath a bare burnt-out bulb --sounds that I am not used to. I can see swarms of seagulls in the night sky. The birds that go ape at midnight. The only thing other than the people and the beach that reminds me of home, except that here they are twice the size. Mutant gulls.

Where I sit now seems ot be the only place where I can be alone at this time of night --the beach reminds me of home, the patio is too dark, the lounge is crowded and too smokey, and the girls are trying to sleep in my room.

People are passing me now and I think it's time for bed, but I don't feel like getting up just yet. I have no idea how long I have been here but writing feels like the only thing that may help to clear my mind at this point in time.

I have made lots of friends, although maybe not the ones that I want to be friends with, which I worry has maybe brought out the over-acheiver in me which doesn't often come out to play. But, hopefully my crowd will come.

Now it's bed time and I think I'm off to dream about someone and hope that something I may have just seen is not true. Surely I'm making it up??

I have not yet found my answers, and am feeling no les confused, but will leave it till the morning. See how I feel. But, until then, lets blame it on the heat.