Tag Archives: Gold Coast

Dildo Warfare: A tale of strippers, sickos and unwanted hand shandies


A few years ago I headed up to the Gold Coast for two weeks on the piss with a good mate of mine called Dion. Alright, that’s not really his name; I’ve changed it for reasons that will soon become clear, and have gone with a name that suggests I have a big, black, bald-headed friend.

After an all-day drinking session that ended with us having watermelons thrown at us by angry locals, me and Dion staggered up to Orchid Avenue and rolled into a scummy nightclub called The Sugar Shack. It was ladies’ night, so there was wall-to-wall poontang. Unfortunately, there was also a massive Maori gentleman dancing around on stage with most of his gear off, and when he de-pantsed and started waving his sizable wang around, I felt very uncomfortable. Still, there was something familiar about him… about his face, I mean, not his wang.

Luckily, the dark-skinned sicko left the stage and me and Dion were able to get on with the important task of failing to pick up women. I was, for some inexplicable reason, wearing a sailor hat, which probably didn’t help my cause. Well, it didn’t help me get the women, but it was like a red rag to a bull for champion homos, because while I was sipping my beer a door opened and I saw the Maori stripper standing buck-naked in a change room, a huge smile on his face and his doodle as hard as an ex-wife’s heart. He gave me a wink, pulled his dick a bit, and beckoned me inside. I looked around, sure he was after one of the lovely ladies that were paying me no attention, but he was certainly after me.

And then it hit me. No, not his dick, I mean it hit me where I recognised him from. He was on a dating show called Playing it Straight, where one chick has to decide which of 12 bozos she wants to make bang-bang with – with the twist being that half of them were gaybos. Anyway, this stripper, Chad, was a finalist, and the show only had a week left to run. He was a famous telly start and he wanted me. Me! Unfortunately, I’d be shitting into a bag for the rest of my life if he caught me, so me and Dion hid in a dark corner while Chad gyrated around the place, looking for us.

I’ve gotta say, though, it hurt my feelings that he didn’t look harder for me. I was wearing a fucking sailor hat, after all, and he was big and buff enough that if he’d really wanted me he could’ve picked me up and carried me out of there like a sack of potatoes. Funnily enough, a few days later, Chad won Playing it Straight – and revealed himself to be heterosexual. Just goes to show that you can’t trust reality TV… or gay dancing Maoris.

While hiding from Chad, I started chatting to this attractive blonde chick with a cracking set of watermelons, named Casey. I can’t remember what bullshit I was telling her, but it must’ve worked because we started pashing under a fake palm tree. She had three friends with her – another attractive blonde, a fat chick who just sat there eating meat pies and farting, her fat rolls drooling onto the floor like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, and some nonce of a bloke who appeared to be wearing a picnic blanket for a shirt. Dion homed in on the blonde and did his best to ignore the two freaks, and I did my best to feel my chick’s tits. Romance certainly ain’t dead.

Turned out the bloke in the picnic blanket was called Nathan, and wasn’t a huge fan of having sex with women. I managed to con an invitation back to Casey’s place, but she said she couldn’t leave until Nathan had found a fella to spend the night with. I’m a problem solver, so I pointed at Dion and said, “He’s gay. He’ll fuck Nathan.” Twenty seconds later we were out the door, with Dion none the wiser that he had been targeted for spermination by a very horny Nathan, who kept licking his lips in anticipation. He soon got an idea, though, because the pervert kept rubbing his leg and winking at him. I dunno, maybe Dion thought Nathan just had cerebral palsy or something.

We got back to their house and it was a dump. Not only was there rubbish and broken furniture all over the place, but they had a dog that liked to shit in the house, and instead of cleaning up after it they just chucked some newspaper down over it. It was as disgusting as seeing Iain Hewitson naked. Anyway, I was young, dumb and full of cum (my own, not Chad’s) so I headed off to a bedroom with this Casey bird. Much to Dion’s disappointed, the attractive friend pissed off, leaving him alone in the living room while I got on with the task of disappointing Casey.

I was a few minutes into a performance that would make a fur seal ashamed when I heard a scream from the living room, followed by crashing sounds. I pulled on my novelty boxer shorts and raced out to see a very angry Dion throwing anything that wasn’t nailed down at a terrified Nathan. “He tried to wank me off in my sleep!” screeched Dion, then threw a dying pot plant at his molester.

Nathan picked up a handful of dog turds and threw them back at Dion, who dodged them before they splattered all over the wall. If anything, it added to the ambiance of the place. I stood back, enjoying the bizarre spectacle, until Nathan took aim at me with a broken toaster. I ducked the deadly appliance and fired back with the leg of a chair. We were tearing the place apart and backing Nathan into a corner, when I spied a bag full of sex toys under a dirty table. I reach down and picked up a huge purple dildo and hurled it at Nathan, conking him on the head. Dion pulled out a butt plug and chucked it, and Nathan must’ve liked that because he tried to catch it in his mouth but ended up sprawled on the floor in a puddle of dog urine instead.

Dion plucked out a set of anal beads, and the last thing I saw before returning to bed (well, it wasn’t really a bed, it was more like a pile of towels in the corner of a room) with Casey was Dion choking out Nathan with the beads. Three minutes later I was finished, the bird was unsatisfied and I was dreaming the dreams of kings.

I woke up a few hours later and snuck out of the room, and went to find Dion. He wasn’t in the living room, or the brasco, so I rang his phone. I heard it blaring away in one of the rooms, and when I opened the door, there he was, completely naked and porking the fat bird from behind while she munched on a sausage roll. It looked like an ant on a scoop of ice cream, and her fat rolls were hypnotic as they jiggled back and forth in time with Dion’s thrusts. I left him to it, and a few minutes later he swaggered out the door, proud as punch, and we got the fuck out of that hell hole. I had to step over an unconscious Nathan on my way out.

It was a long walk home, so we picked up a case of beer and got back into it. When I got back to our unit, I poured Dettol all over my old fella. You can never be too careful.

A few nights later, we saw the big bird pull up in her rustbucket car outside of the Sugar Shack and get out with Casey. I told Dion to shove a banana up her tailpipe. “Why not?” he chuckled. “I’ve already done it once!”

Getting pissed at work

I knew there was something weird about Anaconda Adventure Store as soon as I arrived at the orientation day. They handed me an embarrassing vest to wear and made me march around the room chanting the bizarre anthem of the shop, which went something like, “Anaconda is the place/saviour of the human race/mountain high and river deep/Anaconda’s prices are quite cheap.” I came up with my own verse that went, “If you need gear for camping or stunts/don’t go to Anaconda ’cos they’re a bunch of…” but was cut off before I could finish it.

Anaconda Ashmore – rarely did I see this place while sober

We were all there to set up and open the shop, so we had a few days of learning about Anaconda before going off on a two day camp. That’s where Darryl came into his own. Darryl was a 35-year-old drug addict who smelled like poo and had somehow scored himself a job as the store’s greeter, because everyone wants to get molested by a wheezing smackhead when they pop in to pick up a sleeping back and a pair of thermal underpants.

Most people went to bed pretty early on this camping trip, but me and Darryl and a few others sat up to get on the piss. I hit it hard, Darryl hit it harder, and by 11pm he was stumbling all over the place like Stephen Hawking wearing roller blades. After vomiting on the fire, he thrust a thumb into the darkness and slurred, “Is that the fuckin’ boss’s tent?”

Indeed it was. Well, to be accurate, it wasn’t just the boss of the shop, it was the dude who owned the whole company and was in town to oversea the set-up of a multi-million dollar store. So Darryl stumbled over to the tent, pulled his floppy cock out and pissed all over the roof of it. Poor ol’ Darryl didn’t have the brains or sobriety to urinate and remain upright at the same time, so mid-stream he lost his balance and tumbled onto the tent, tearing it in half (that’s Anaconda quality for ya!) and leaving the boss flapping around in a web of piss-soaked material.

This poor quality photo is the only one I have from my time at Anaconda. Can you spot the Row Show?

Darryl got away with that, but he left Anaconda of his own accord a few month’s later when he moved on from smoking bongs and sniffing glue to injecting heroin into his eyeballs. I’d put money on him being dead by now.

The set-up of the shop wasn’t all smooth sailing. The biggest stuff up had to do with the thousands of flyers that were sent out to the good people of the Gold Coast to advertise the opening of the shop. It was all good except for the website printed in large letters all over it. It should’ve read http://www.anaconda.com.au. Instead, it read http://www.anaconda.com. That missing .au was important, because people who followed the printed address found not budget-priced tents and deals on kayaks that barely float, but high-quality photographs of black men with their large, snake-like penises doing irreparable damage to the vaginas of young, misguided white women.

An example of the sort of ‘ebony thugs’ found at http://www.anaconda.com

But this is meant to be about me getting fired from yet another retail job, so let’s get back on track. I was porking this chick I worked with, and she was a bit of a goer. I think one or two other team members may have shoved their hiking poles into her dirty trench, which is fine. In fact, there were two blokes called Gary there, and the rumour was she got tag teamed by them in the loading dock (that could either be an actual area in the shop, or a euphemism for her pussy, so go with whichever one works best for you), and something like that just has to be true. I mean, you couldn’t back up an encounter with the Row Show with just one Gary, right?

So this chick invited me and a bunch of other people from work to her birthday party, and because her family was rich it was on a boat. I got fuckin’ smashed and almost fell into the choppy water off Stradbroke Island, and after that we all went to a nightclub, where I got even drunker and stammered like a retarded person at women who didn’t appreciate the attention. Stuck up bitches.

There was a fat girl at work who possessed an arse like the back of a truck, and she obviously thought I was drunk enough to not puke at the sight of her, so she started grabbing me on the dick and saying she wanted to make bang-bang and all that. I did vomit, but that was probably just because of the alcohol. Anyway, after she tweaked my donk for the 17th time, I’d had enough, and told her to, “Fuck off you fat, pizza-guzzling slab of shit,” and then promptly fell into a bin.

That’s fine, I’ve done worse. The only problem was that this fat, pizza-guzzling slab of shit was promoted to manager a few days later, and she took something of a dislike to me. Suddenly I found myself throwing sawdust on vomit and lifting really heavy things (although nothing as heavy as this chick, so I can’t complain). She tried to make my life hell, but I was drunk most of the time, so I didn’t give a shit, which infuriated her even more.

Shit like this happened every day, so it’s a wonder I didn’t fucking murder myself

Finally, after a year, it came time for me to leave the Gold Coast and head back home to go to uni, so I put in my resignation at Anaconda. It was the right thing to do, even though my instincts told me to tell them toshove their shitty job and their shitty vest up their collective blurters. I had one day left, which should’ve been a fun day to say goodbye to people, but as I was getting dressed and ready to go, the fat bitch called me up and told me not to come in. Apparently I’d suddenly developed a bad attitude (in fact, I’d had it since the day I got there because it was a fucking retail job, and anyone who doesn’t have a bad attitude about working retail is a fucking idiot), but it was obvious that she just wanted to get revenge by cutting my final shift. I gave her some choice words, then she told me to bring my vest back and hung up. Red rag to a bull, bitch.

It was only 9am, but I got on the turps to celebrate my recent retirement, and after a few bottles of wine I came up with an idea for that bloody vest. I spread it out over the toilet and ‘did a Darryl’ all over it, soaking the fucking thing with my zesty urine. Once it was soaked I took it out onto the balcony to dry it off while I hit the wines again. A few hours later I chucked the piss-encrusted outfit in a plastic bag and hitched a ride out to the shop.

The fat bitch was waiting for me with a smirk on her face, and as soon as I got there she held out her hand and I took the vest out of the bag and gave it to her. “You’re fuckin’ banned from this shop,” she blabbered, while her tits smacked at her knees and her six chins wobbled in the spring breeze. “Teach you to be a fuckin’ prick to a decent woman like me. Now take your little dick and fuck off!”

With that she swung my vest around her mammoth shoulders and slipped it on, obviously as some sort of symbolic gesture of her victory. I could almost see the stink of piss coming off it, but she didn’t seem to notice, even though the customers walking past her were turning green and collapsing around her. A dog even started barking at her, and all the girls on the registers started laughing and slapping each other high fives when they realised what had happened. Finally the fat bitch tore off the vest and threw it away before kicking over a big stand of water bottles, all while I swaggered off into the sunset.