The East Coast Road Trip

by Steve Deeks

“Fuck off you twat,” the Irish girl screeched, before turning away with an utterly miserable look on her face. The kind I suppose you would have when pleasure had been replaced by abject humiliation. Still, if you undergo such deeds in the confines of a public area then, whether you like it or not, you have to accept the rough with the smooth, as it were. “There must be a fishmongers round here,” I observed, prompting more abuse from the girl, before she turned on Sam and Simon, who were still valiantly recording.

  “Oh very clever,” she spewed, before attempting to grab their phones.

  “Hey I’m filming,” Simon yelped defensively, quickly moving back out of harms way.

  “This will be an internet sensation,” Sam added enthusiastically, rubbing further salt into the wounds.

  Ben had left his mark - in more than one way - with the English man’s backside looking like he had received several lashings from a whip, after he was finally let free from the German’s vice like grip, while spitting with rage and barely comprehensible expletives. Staring daggers as they walked away we responded with a group wave to show there were no hard (or soft as it had turned out) feelings. Sadly this was met with a series of finger and hand gestures from the pair. But refusing to become engaged in childish tit for tat we strolled off with a warm glow.

  With everyone on an adrenaline fuelled high recounting every intricate detail of the astonishing event we had just witnessed, we got some more goon to celebrate after arriving back at our base. “That was priceless when Ben walked up and smacked his arse…I’ll never forget the look on his face,” I said fondly reminiscing.

  “Watching him trying to punch you while his cock was out was funny…though not so funny when you realised it was still semi stiff,” Sam continued. It was only a matter of time before questions were asked of Ben’s sexuality, though, having decided to pick a fight with a naked man.

  “Bet you enjoyed being on top of that ‘hard’ guy?” Mark said beamingly.

  “You really gave it to him,” added Simon.

  In reply, Ben offered a harsh riposte, “He was lucky I didn’t hit him harder.”

  The incident had been a great bonding experience but the night wasn’t over yet. As we walked back to the main area we came across a less than sought-after intoxicated female who was offering herself around to any takers. With teeth as wonky as the Leaning Tower of Pisa and an array of boils covering her face to go with her hairy legs, I didn’t much fancy her chances of success, particularly as you could almost smell her desperation. After throwing herself at Sam, who diplomatically said he had to go to the toilet, she moved on to Simon, who pretended he couldn’t speak English, as by astonishing coincidence, she too was also Irish. “I wonder if she’s friends with the other one?” I muttered.

  Despite the girl’s best attempts no one was falling for her charms. She didn’t seem to think that it would harm her chances to be given the elbow by a vast selection of men – many of whom were friends or had been talking - all standing nearby to each other, before moving onto the next one. Although it’s fair to say she had probably consumed more than her yearly recommended allowance for alcohol in that one evening, you still had to admire how thick skinned she was.

  A short time later after she had completely and utterly humiliated herself for the umpteenth time she wandered off leaving people in peace to continue their night. We all breathed a sigh of relief as we knocked back a round of goon. Later that night Sam, who had gone off for a wee, came running over looking like all his Christmas’s had come at once. “Quick, follow me,” he urged, before leading us to a dark spot near the back of his group’s marquee. He pointed to a nearby tree. As we tiptoed closer it became clear there were two people enjoying each other’s company. But then, shockingly, upon closer inspection, it became all too obvious that the man happened to be none other than Mark, while the female was the wonky toothed woman who had just been offering up her services to any man with a pulse. This was pure dynamite.

  “Look it’s Mark,” Sam splurged, delirious from his astonishing discovery. “He’s fingering her.” And so he was. He had somehow found a way to manoeuvre his hand between her neither region before embarking on a steady arm motioning that was bringing joy to the depraved woman. In return she was tugging away at his organ like a locomotion train. “She’s jerking him off,” Ben sniggered.

  “Looks like she’s in a hurry,” I replied, as there was no sign of let up in her vigorous wrist action.

  Simon, once again, had taken it upon himself to record the whole thing. “Now Mark will be able to see himself,” he said, smiling evilly ear to ear.

  “He will thank you I’m sure,” Sam added.

  Despite this, the lady - if that is the correct term - continued trying to rub, prompting Mark to grab her hand. “It’s ok I’m finished, I’m finished,” he pleaded, as he launched a fierce protection of his procreation tool. Indeed he was finished. And Simon had the video to prove it.

  It was hard to contain our laughter as we watched the awkward aftermath between these two total strangers. “So…where are you going next down the east coast?” the girl asked politely, like two people that had just met, which was exactly what they were. The only difference being that most people that had met minutes earlier wouldn’t ordinarily have ended up exchanging bodily fluids.

  “Possibly Noosa, Brisbane and Surfers Paradise. What about you?” Mark, maintaining the polite atmosphere, replied. And so forth. It all just seemed a bit odd for this woman to be concerned about his travelling exploits when she had a lorry load of his semen dripping from her hand.

  As the polite conversation ran its course - “See you then,” they both said while offering a shy wave before going their separate ways in the knowledge it would be very unlikely they would, in fact, ever actually see each other again. In Mark’s case he could only hope, though if she ever did cross his path in the future it would represent about as much luck as being struck down by lightening. Well, to the rest of us at least, though with our friend you sense he would attempt to make the most of the coincidence.

  Cautiously following Mark as he made his way back onto the beach, we performed our obligations by suddenly ambushing him, much to his shock. His face was one of misery and pain, as he instinctively knew from our faces that we had witnessed his fornication and were about to relentlessly embark on another character assassination. “You should see my video,” Simon said with deep relish, prompting an anxious raising of Mark’s one-brow, with him knowing he would now have to pay the consequences for his actions. “Fuck off, just delete it will you?” he said wearily.

  “No, no, this is going on the internet,” Sam snapped back defensively, piling on the misery.

  Speaking like he was referring to a fine piece of art, Ben, twisted the knife further, “My friends in Germany would really like to see this.” This was followed by a long, patronising smile that had a substantial whiff of pity to it.

  Mark was getting it from all angles but if ever a man deserved it then it was him. And for the remainder of the night he was forced to endure endless disparaging jokes, much to our delight. “If you do the crime, you must do the time,” I said to him philosophically, attempting to help alleviate some of the angst that was now weighing him down like a slab of concrete, as he sat rubbing his head solemnly. It was unusual for him to suffer guilt, yet despite this we all knew that given half a chance with anything in a skirt he would be up to his eyeballs in it once more.

  The next morning after breakfast we made our way to another of the island’s lakes. Everyone on our truck had seemingly given in from mocking me for not getting behind the wheel, perhaps because they had realised fairly early into our trip that it was in their interests. After splashing about in the water and lapping up the sun for an hour, which hardly seemed worth the 45 minute journey to get there, we made our way back to the camp to pack away our stuff as our Fraser Island experience was drawing to a close. The lack of
sleep and vast amounts of alcohol – not to mention the total humiliation for those who had engaged with others they now wished they hadn’t – was taking its toll and there was a sense, just as on the final morning of the Whitsunday tour, that everyone had grown tired of seeing Dingoes, camping out like hippies, travelling from lake to lake and having to make do with the ground as a viable option in which to crap.

  With Mark getting a sudden burst of energy – presumably at the prospect that he was finally escaping the scene of his horrific crimes – he had decided to re-open his mocking of my failure to drive. “Is Special Steve still too scared?” The Scouse girls didn’t need a second invitation and were soon on my case in their squeaky voices. “It’s ok Steve, we’ll have you back at the hostel where it’s safe in no time,” Kate said, before screeching with laughter.

  Never one to take abuse lying down I hit back, “Have you seen my shaver?” Sadly I don’t think she was aware of my subtle inference that her face was as hairy as a dog’s chin, though.

  While packing stuff onto the truck I came across Mark’s wallet in the passenger seat glove compartment. Sensing my moment to inflict revenge I looked around to make sure no one was nearby before quickly placing the leather item into my pocket while carrying on putting things into the vehicle. Normally in such circumstances when I am playing a practical joke on someone, I tend to give the game away a bit too easily by grinning insanely as soon as that individual thinks something is amiss. However, on this occasion - just as when I was ten years old when I scoffed someone else’s giant Aero chocolate bar, which prompted a public inquest by school staff, which I somehow got away with – I managed to maintain a straight face. The goal was far too important than to let it be ruined by giving the game away.

  I studied Mark with fevered excitement knowing he was none the wiser, as he traipsed about wearily putting things into the back of the four by four. I knew that at some point he would check to see where his wallet was and I couldn’t wait to see the pained expression on his face when he did. After the tent had been put away he scratched his head and began to search through his rucksack, before standing up and looking into space and scratching his head some more. He wandered over to where our tent had been and scoured the ground in a state of confusion, that was manifestly worse thanks to his inability to think having drank enough alcohol to fill a large swimming pool over the last few days.

  I resisted the urge to laugh in his face, aware that any moment now he would ask if I had seen it. Just to add to the sense of reality of it all, we had heard earlier that someone’s wallet was stolen the night before, raising the depressing yet likely conclusion that a wallet thief was in operation and had now added Mark to his or her list of victims. Dazed and anxious he walked over to the truck where I was crouching busily organising my bag. “You seen my wallet? I can’t find it,” he asked desperately.

  I paused thoughtfully before offering a few suggestions. “Did you look in the tent? What about in your bag?” I said with a remarkably straight face, even surprising myself.

  “Nah, already looked there.”

  “What about in the truck? It’s got to be somewhere…when did you last have it?”

  “Yeah…looked in the truck. Thought I put it in there last night but can’t see it.”

  I was playing a blinder and saying all the right things. He didn’t suspect me at all. And with this I bravely upped the stakes and gently raised the sinister prospect, that by now would have entered his head in any case, that he may have been on the receiving end of some skulduggery. “Did you lock the truck afterwards?” I asked, visibly overloading the few brain cells he had left.

  “I don’t know…thought so.”

  “You don’t think…”

  “What, what?”

  “You don’t think someone has changed it do you? There was that wallet that got taken last night remember.”

  Mark paused, the colour draining from his face. “I know, I did think that too. What am I going to do? There’s $100 cash in there and all my bank cards…I’m fucked.”

  “I’m sure it’ll turn up somewhere,” I added, offering false reassurance, as is standard practice in such situations. He rightly didn’t look convinced.

  Through sheer desperation he was now asking every passing person if they’d seen his wallet and before long there was a mini search party in full swing. All those in our group sifted the area like forensic policemen hoping to find the missing item. Our group leader had even stopped people from what they were doing and shouted out for everyone to keep their eyes open.

  I bumped into Sam and told him what was really going on. Without a second’s hesitation he confirmed, with some bemusement, that he would remain tight-lipped should he be asked about it and do his best to add to Mark’s fears. Within moments Mark had gone over to him and posed the question. “I just said to him I hadn’t seen it but that I’d heard of other wallets being stolen, which meant it didn’t look good for him,” Sam told me secretively afterwards. At this point, with no one close to the truck, I decided to remove the wallet from my pocket and place it back in the glove compartment where I had taken it from. “Now who’s the special one Mark?” I muttered conspiratorially to myself.

  “He will look like a retard now when someone finds it,” Sam scoffed delightedly.

  With the search going into overdrive and looking like delaying our party leaving, Becky walked over to the vehicle to administer another check. After looking in the back she moved to the front where she opened the glove compartment. Looking surprised, she pulled out a wallet. “This can’t be it can it?” she shouted over to Mark, fully expecting it to be someone else’s.

  “Nah can’t be, I’ve already looked in there,” he answered, walking over just to make sure. He picked up the wallet and stared in disbelief. “I don’t fucking believe it. This is it…but I’d already checked there…oh well who gives a toss. I’m so relieved,” he added rubbing his face, while shaking his head as he came to terms with being reunited with his valuables. “How did you not see it in there?” Becky asked curiously.

  “Yeah, how did you not see it in there you plank?” I added.

  He had no answers, only offering a shrug of the shoulders. “So we’ve all been looking for your stinking wallet for ages and it was right there the whole time? You really are a Special One you are.” I looked him in the eye and shook my head as patronisingly as I could possibly muster. I decided it was time to put him out of his misery and broke out into a victorious grin.

  “You cheeky wanker, you hid it didn’t you?” he barked.

  “No, as if I would do that to you?” I smirked. But the game was up.

  “Can’t believe I fell for it.”

  “Well you are special.”

  Then, even Becky turned against him, “Oh dear Mark you really should keep your wallet with you at all times,” she said, pointing out the obvious.

  I felt a sense of contentment as we made our way wearily back along the island’s edge and to the ferry crossing. The trip had began with an unfortunate elbow to Mark’s downstairs department that left him incapacitated in front of everyone and ended in equally humiliating circumstances.

  We had timed our trip perfectly as heavy clouds began to move in while we crossed the water back to the mainland. And by the time we arrived at the hostel, in a state of exhaustion, it was tipping down. After checking back in with reception I sprinted through the outside area to my room adjacent to the pool, though I may as well have jumped into the water such was the monumental downpour. Sharing a room with Mark and the Scousers I knew that any intolerance towards my stench would be highlighted and ridiculed. And sure enough as I took off my soaking and sickeningly foul trainers and placed them near my bed I was met by a torrent of abuse. “What’s that horrible smell,” Kate screeched. “It smells the same as the one on the truck.”

  I instantly knew it was my trainers that she was referring t
o because for years I have watched joyfully as those around me have nearly fainted at the precise point that I pluck a trainer from my bare sweaty foot. It’s a tendency that occurs more often in the summer when the temperature is hot and I wear trainers with no socks – that’s the real killer. And although I figured this out from a fairly early age it has never deterred me from doing it, mainly because wearing a thick sock over my foot in boiling conditions has never really appealed and as the stench emanates from my body I can just about tolerate the smell. Though, I do admit it is vile and should such a smell originate from someone else I would be among the first to protest.

  But as I was the guilty party I decided to play dumb and offered a shrug of the shoulders as to the location of this disgusting whiff. But unfortunately, by now, Becky had also noticed the powerful, cheesy aroma that was spreading through our small room like wildfire. Both were hunting down its precise source like a couple of bloodhounds attempting to catch a fox. Inevitably they came across my trainers and with each of them picking up one to make sure it was the offending smell, they both then simultaneously dropped the trainer, jerking their heads back in the process, whilst spontaneously gagging. “That’s disgusting,” Kate spluttered, eyes watering.

  “They’re going outside now,” Becky said. I attempted to negotiate to keep them inside as it was now flooding outside but was given short shrift and was forced to watch as my footwear was dumped outside the room. It wasn’t all bad news, though, as I was instructed to use the shower next, which meant I didn’t have to wait ages for a clean.

  Once ready we made our way to the bar area where some burgers, hot dogs and chips had been laid on by the hostel for us. I ravenously feasted on the meat like a caveman and went to the bar where I ordered two milk chocolate tasting cocktails after pointing at the picture like a Neanderthal, such was my tiredness and inability to communicate using words. “What you got there you faggot?” Mark, somewhat predictably, said. I couldn’t be bothered to talk at that point so just ignored him and sipped on my rather tasty drink - once I had removed the umbrellas and slices of orange from the side.