by Becky Lucas
Not only did these men seem to have genuine feelings for these dolls, but they also did what normal couples do. There was a man who posted a photo of his doll sitting perfectly still with her arms outstretched. The caption read, ‘She’s finally letting me pick the movie.’ I can’t be sure, but I think I could see the Star Wars crawl text reflected off her latex skin.
Then of course there was crazyhorny64. He was a pretty active member of the group and had recently posted a photo of him taking his sex doll, named ‘April’, out to get her hair cut. I had assumed that one of the perks of having a sex doll would be that their hair didn’t grow, so you wouldn’t have to suffer the indignity of taking her to a very public salon, but, from what I could gather, that’s part of the fun.
In his post, he claimed that the hairdresser was very understanding of their situation, and some of the other customers were very supportive and even had a lot of questions for him! He ended by expressing a bit of annoyance that, after April’s haircut, she ‘insisted’ on going shopping, and that he, being the man, was forced to pick up the bill!
I suppose what I’m trying to say is that this man had a girlfriend who was made from a plastic mould and was incapable of sentience and thought. He could have projected any traits he wanted onto this object, essentially creating his dream woman. And apparently, his idea of a perfect woman is a shallow creature who loves shopping and relies on money from her hard-working man to pay for her lifestyle. I guess he was just desperate to play the role of a man encumbered by the demands of his girlfriend; that way he could roll his eyes and claim ‘women be shopping’.
I was satisfied that, no matter what I did to try and make him like me, I wouldn’t ever be a good-enough woman for crazyhorny64.
So thank you to crazyhorny64, for this realisation about online critics: sometimes people’s feelings about you are justified. But sometimes the universe has, for whatever reason, decided to throw you in the path of a man with an internet connection and a girlfriend who would melt if left in a Westfield shopping centre carpark.
Rachel
Rachel was dangerous, even at seven years old, which was when we first became friends. She was a sort of troublemaking shaman, who could figure out how best to ruin an adult’s day using whatever was on hand. With a casual glance at the house and backyard, she’d pick three items – a barrel, foam balls from the inside of a beanbag, and a jar of honey – and create chaos.
This was perfect for me, because the ensuing chaos was never my doing, and I’ve always been strangely drawn to chaos that’s outside of my control – or, at least, that’s unable to be pinned on me. I never want to be in the epicentre of it or be directly responsible for it, but I’ve always been more than happy to stand on the edges and look in.
I’ve had this strange attraction to chaos as long as I can remember. At the age of six, months after the death of my beloved pet mouse, Lisa Marie, my mum let me pick out another one at the pet shop. Within two days, it had given birth to six babies. I knew I should have immediately told Mum, but I didn’t, because I had a sick curiosity about what would happen. Instead, I kept the box of mice secreted away under my bed, secure in the knowledge that technically I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I was just letting nature take its course.
After another couple of weeks, some of those babies had babies, and, within a month, I had forty or so mice. I couldn’t help but look on in glee at the madness of all the moving mice. So many of them writhing around, and all because of me. I enjoyed the idea of this box of churning, unauthorised life unfurling without any direct input from me, yet I was able to peer into it whenever I wanted.
Three months after the initial purchase, my mum caught me holding eight of the baby mice at one time and it was all over. That was the end of my reign over my little rodent kingdom. She took the box and disposed of them. I’m not exactly sure what happened to them all; I want to believe she took them back to the pet shop, where they found loving homes for all sixty-four mice, but there was a creek nearby and I can only assume that was their final resting place.
Rachel was sort of like my box of mice, in that I wasn’t directly responsible for the trouble she caused, but I certainly didn’t do anything to stop it. I wasn’t a naturally naughty child and I’m not a naturally naughty adult, but I can be talked into almost anything if it’s fun enough – and unfortunately the fun stuff is usually the stuff you’re not supposed to do.
One day when Rachel was over at my place, she grabbed a bottle of Morning Fresh dishwashing liquid and a skipping rope, and created a ‘slippery slide’ on the roof by squeezing the dishwashing liquid all over it and spraying it with a hose. She then told me to get onto the roof and hold on tight to the skipping rope as she pulled me this way and that. Both of us took turns tugging each other along the hot tin roof covered in suds, every now and then careening out of control towards the edge, where we’d just manage to stop ourselves in time before we could fall off. After we’d had about four or five turns each, my mum came outside and caught us in the act. She stared at us open-mouthed, rendered truly speechless and unable to understand how we’d rigged such an effective death trap in the twenty minutes she’d left us unattended.
Later that afternoon, as we lounged around in timeout, I asked Rachel what she wanted to be when she grew up.
‘A sex machine,’ she said, after no thought whatsoever.
‘Oh,’ I replied.
Being friends with Rachel felt like being friends with a snake or a shark or some other animal that you couldn’t relax around. I was always worried that she’d turn on me. But, taking in all my options, which was Cindy across the road who used to incessantly ask me to smell her finger, Rachel was the best I had. And at least she wasn’t boring. Plus, if I’m going to be honest, she was a fan of the five-fingered discount and would regularly steal coins from her mum’s purse to buy us both lollies.
Rachel and I would often hang out together after school, alternating between her place and mine. One thing I’ve observed during the years of going over to someone’s house for a play or a sleepover is that some parents really adhere to the idea of their kid’s friends being ‘guests’ in their house, and would bend over backwards to put on a little show for you. It was divine; suddenly, you went from being a nothing kid to a little princess being waited on hand and foot. That kind of treatment was easy to get used to. There was one girl I stayed friends with for longer than I should have, because I adored the little trays laden with treats her mum would bring out to the pool with a smile. There was none of that at my house, or Rachel’s house – neither of our mums bothered with this veneer of niceness. I didn’t love getting yelled at by someone else’s mum, but on the flip side I didn’t have to be embarrassed when my mum did it to Rachel. I do, however, remember the shocking day I was forced to participate in Saturday-morning chores with Rachel and the rest of her family, and thinking that this was, actually, too far.
My Year Three teacher was a blonde toad of a woman, who wore big chunky gold jewellery, had lipstick lines that would always form in the folds of her lips, and hated me. I couldn’t understand what she didn’t like about me. I didn’t feel that I was troublesome or even stood out in any real way at all. What confused me even more is that she liked Rachel, when it seemed like public knowledge that, of the two of us, I was the good one.
No one believes kids when they tell you that their teachers don’t like them. I think people assume that when you’re a teacher, part of the job description includes trying your best to at least act as if you like your students. I can understand why some teachers might not like certain students though – children tend to mimic their parents’ annoying behaviour, plus they lack boundaries and sometimes piss themselves.
When I have an issue with someone, it’s generally because of something tangible, like a difference in political beliefs, a romantic rift or, in my weaker moments, career jealousy. That’s what makes it so hard for adults to really believe kids when they tell them their teacher doesn’t
like them – the idea of an adult having enough common ground with a child in order to form a genuine beef seems a bit silly.
Looking back, I wonder if this teacher had even tried to act as if she liked me or, even worse, had tried and just couldn’t. I know that teaching is a hard job – the pay isn’t good enough and there’s a lot of pressure – but I believe that teachers should be reminded that when they have an irrational dislike of a student, it really sticks with us.
My Year Two teacher loved me, but hated a boy called Doug. One day a girl in our class came to school, her hair teeming with lice. As the teacher lifted up her hair with a ruler to inspect the infestation, Doug shouted, ‘Ew! Nits!’
The teacher turned around and spat, ‘Look at you! You’ve got disgusting warts all over your elbow and you’re fat!’ After which he and the whole class fell silent.
I bumped into Doug years later at a bar somewhere in the city. Struggling to make conversation, I brought up that incident and asked him if he remembered it. He went quiet for a moment before he said, yes, he remembered it well.
I recently came across a similar example when I did a day’s work in a writers’ room for a children’s TV show. As the show was about school, naturally we writers and producers started discussing our own schooling experiences. Eventually, the discussion came around to bullying and nicknames, and one of the show’s creators launched into a story.
He told us that when he was younger, he was a lot chubbier. After he said this, he paused and looked around, as if expecting all of us to congratulate him on what a svelte figure he now cut. When no one said anything, he continued. He said that, as well as being chubby, he also played the tuba, which didn’t exactly help matters. I wasn’t surprised to hear that. The sight of a rotund boy waddling along already conjures the sound of a tuba – and he went and actually played one! How did they decide who played what instrument in that school? I shudder to think that they simply looked around the room and assigned instruments to kids who looked like they were up to the task.
Anyway, he told us that there had been one afternoon when he’d been running late to band practice. He’d bustled into the classroom, put his tuba together and sat down in his seat. The teacher looked up and, with a smirk, asked, ‘Why are you so late, Beach Ball?’
And the whole class erupted into laughter.
‘Kids called me “Beach Ball” for the entirety of high school!’ he said, chortling heartily to show us that it was all in the past now and, besides, look at him now, he was about to have his very own TV show.
We all chuckled at the anecdote and resumed swapping stories and working on episode structures.
About an hour later, we broke for lunch. As we were grazing on different snacks in various bowls, I went for a bowl of chips on the other side of the table, but couldn’t quite reach it. Deciding to have some light-hearted fun, I called out, ‘Hey, Beach Ball! Pass us those chips, will ya?’
I was met with complete silence. The creator looked down at his lap, obviously really upset. That shit never goes away.
Anyway, back to the teacher who hated me.
One afternoon, after lunch break, she came up to me and said, ‘I need to talk to you.’
She walked me outside, presumably so she could speak to me the way she really wanted to, and told me I was a thief and should be ashamed of myself; that I was so stupid for thinking I could get away with it.
I stood there, genuinely confused. I couldn’t figure out what the fuck she was on about.
She continued to scream at me, spit flying wildly out of her mouth. As I tried to protest, her eyes became even more gleeful – oh, to finally have a reason to hate me!
Eventually, I managed to get out of her just what it was that I had supposedly done. I was accused of stealing five Goosebumps books from the bag of another student, who had brought them in for show and tell. She said there were witnesses to me being in the classroom, where the bag had been, at lunchtime.
‘Yes . . .’ I cautiously began. ‘Me and Rachel came up to get our hats, but I promise I didn’t steal any books.’
She scoffed. ‘I know you like Goosebumps books. I’ve seen you reading them.’
Even to an eight-year-old, this seemed like very flimsy evidence. Of course I liked Goosebumps books. I also liked Milo, boogie boarding and forgetting to bring my lunchbox to school.
I’ll never forget the way she marched me back into class and said to the boy who owned the books, ‘Becky stole them, but she won’t admit to it,’ or how the entire class sat there staring at me. I will never forget the sense of injustice I felt. If anything, it rankles even more now – at least these days if I’m being accused of doing something bad, it’s generally because I’ve actually done it.
I couldn’t make sense of it. I was in a funk all afternoon. The worst thing was that, having not actually committed the crime I was accused of, I didn’t even have a good Goosebumps book to lose myself in.
That evening, I finally told my mum what had happened.
‘If you stole them, just tell me. Because if I go in there and defend you and then find out you did it, you’ll be in so much trouble,’ she said.
I solemnly swore I was innocent and my mum believed me, which was very kind considering what had happened with the sixty-four mice.
The next day, she put on a nice skirt and a bold lip and went to school to defend my honour. She told the teacher to never speak to me like that again or she’d make a formal complaint. I remember there being a lot of yelling, my mum at the teacher and vice versa. My mum was young, and hot, and only recently did I piece it together that that might have been the reason my toadlike teacher hated me.
Despite her best efforts, my teacher couldn’t pin the crime on me, and after that she more or less had to drop the whole thing. Time passed and things went back to normal. I barely thought about the incident, except on the odd occasion when I’d notice my classmates move their things out of my reach. I was, in their eyes, a criminal who’d got off on a technicality.
But that sort of thing didn’t bother me much. Even as a kid, I could sense that this stuff and those people only sort of mattered. Besides, it was nearly school holidays, and Rachel’s family had just got an above-ground swimming pool.
One afternoon over the holidays, Rachel and I were sitting in the back of my mum’s blue Ford Laser, eating slices of fresh bread from the plastic bag Mum had hurled through the window before running off to complete more errands.
Rachel turned to me and said, ‘Do you want to know something?’
Then she opened her schoolbag and pulled out the five Goosebumps books I’d been accused of taking.
Enough time had passed that I couldn’t precisely remember how hurt I’d felt at the time of the false accusation, so I wasn’t even mad at Rachel. I just sort of nodded and said something about how it was unfair that I had taken all the blame.
She had this grotesque smile on her face as she opened her palm to reveal eighty warm cents that she’d stolen from her mum’s purse. A bribe. She told me I could have the money if I kept her secret, and to this day I can’t remember if I took it or not.
Thank you to Rachel for the many years of friendship, the lollies, and the reminder that if you play with snakes or sharks, you will get bit!
Pam
As I mentioned earlier, my mum was a country singer and musician who would regularly play at music festivals. Sometimes I’d stay with my grandma, or a friend’s family, but often she would bring me along and hire someone to look after me while she was performing.
When I was around six years old, my mum hired a woman called Pam to look after me during these festivals. When I asked her years later how she had found Pam, she said she didn’t know, which I can believe.
I remember Pam being quite elderly and refined, with a glass of white wine permanently attached to her right hand. My mum said she was actually only about forty and just had a drinking problem.
Kids never know when adults have drinking probl
ems. One of my best friends in primary school had a dad with a drinking problem and we didn’t know, we just thought he was really fun. (He used to give a bunch of us lifts home after school, and he’d play this great game in the car where he’d let us take our seatbelts off and then he’d careen around the back streets, taking corners at breakneck speed, and we’d go flying around the back seat, screaming with joy.) When you’re young, you can’t imagine what adults are trying to achieve by drinking, because you’re either in the middle of – or still yet to experience – the pain you’ll eventually want to forget.
There was a time in my mid-twenties when I had started touring with other comedians around Australia, performing at theatres and RSLs every night. On one of those trips, I met an older male comedian who was sober and had been for some time. One morning, having written myself off the night before, I crawled into the tour van, nursing a plastic bag in case I needed to vomit. I jokingly mentioned to him and the others that I wouldn’t mind going to AA. Perhaps it was semi-jokingly, if I’m being honest – I wasn’t really serious about it, but I did kind of want to know what the others thought of me.
‘Noooo, you’re fine. You don’t need to do that,’ is what I expected the others to say in response. Instead, there was this kind of unanimous group reaction that seemed to imply that I should definitely think about it.
Hours later, after we’d checked into our motel, I was trying to get half an hour of much-needed rest before the show that night, when the sober comedian sent me a text.
‘Hey, as you know, I have some experience with AA, I’ve been sober for 15 years. Feel free to ask me anything.’
I wrote back, ‘What does AA stand for?’
It’s odd to me how easily we point the finger at someone drinking too much or always being drunk without really wondering why, when that is in fact what we should be asking. That being said, I don’t know what had happened in Pam’s life that might have precipitated her drinking problem. I have to present her to you based on the impressions I formed as a child, and I’m not even entirely sure what they were. I used to hate Pam, but now that I’m older I don’t know if she was really as bad as I thought she was. I can barely remember anything she said to me, which is frustrating because I’m afraid there’s still some Pam in me. Isn’t it scary how adults can tell kids things when our brains are still forming, and we can’t really tell what’s worth keeping or throwing away? Who knows what damaging things you might internalise during this vulnerable time?