by Dom Harvey
There were obstacles that I could hide behind—hay bales, barrels, water troughs, things like that. But since there were so many shooters lined up over the entire length of the run I thought it would be unwise to take refuge behind any of these. No matter where on the course I was, there was probably someone who had a clear shot at me. And don’t they say it’s harder to hit a moving target?
I was given a countdown by the bloodthirsty forty: ‘5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1!’
I took off in a sprint and was immediately engulfed in searing pain over every inch of my body. The barrage of paintballs was relentless and seemed to come from every direction. My whole body hurt and the only way to stop it was to make it to the safety of the chapel, which now seemed like it was bloody miles away.
I was wearing a hoody for protection. Obviously, I had a face mask, but I thought a hoody would offer me some neck protection. What I didn’t consider was that as soon as I started to run the hood would be blown off. The shots to the neck and back of the head were winners. As were the shots that got my hands—my fingers were covered in green fluoro paint and throbbed with pain. My knees, too—who would have ever known a paintball to the side of the knee could be so excruciating?
After eleven long seconds I made it to the safety of the chapel and paused to check the damage and catch my breath.
The paintballs were still raining down. I could hear them thumping against the plywood side of the little white chapel. But for the moment I was protected—at least I thought I was. Then I was hit on the side of the neck from close range. One of the forty shooters had moved from the side fence that ran the length of the course to the back fence and had an open shot at me. Flashbacks from my last controversial paintball game twenty years earlier came flooding back. I felt like running and tackling the prick who got me with the cheap shot but decided that would be unwise. After all, he was the one who was armed. And didn’t the bloke who once said, ‘It’s harder to hit a moving target,’ also say, ‘Never a good idea to take your fists to a gun fight?’
I had no option but to run straight back. Probably for the best, because as soon as I stopped running I could feel the all-over throbbing and burning getting worse. It was everywhere. Even the little bone in my ankle was sore. I remember thinking at the time, ‘Who the hell would be aiming for my ankle?’ It was probably the security guard guy I met earlier. That would explain why he missed out on police college—must have failed the eye exam.
I started my sprint back and immediately the flick-flick-flick-flick-flick sound of forty paintball guns going off at once started again. I ran back even faster than I had run down, covering the distance between the chapel and saloon in only nine seconds. I was hit just as often on the return trip, but because the shots to my fingers and neck already hurt so much I barely felt the pain of my new injuries, which was a bonus I suppose.
I limped out of the western town drenched in sweat and panting. I was a broken man, much to the glee of the forty shooters who had taken time out of their busy lives for the opportunity to break me. But I had done it. I had run the gauntlet, and survived.
A couple of minutes after I’d finished, most of the throbbing subsided and only a few key areas still hurt—my kneecaps, fingers, ankle and neck—and there were deep bruises around the fleshy buttock area.
I made my way out to the car park with Leon, my boss, who had just got great pleasure out of shooting me, and Michael Kooge, who was filming video for The Edge website. There was a toot and we looked up. It was the guy in the little blue two-door Rav4 who had come to take part that morning because of an insinuation I apparently made that the Rav4 is a popular motor vehicle for gay men. He wound down the passenger window and shouted out, ‘Answer me this. Who’s the gay boy now?’
Then he laughed and drove off feeling pretty good about life.
On the back bumper of his Rav4 I noticed a sticker.
It had a picture of a cute dog inside a love heart with the slogan, ‘Life is merrier with a Yorkshire Terrier.’
Often I would draw conclusions about a grown man with such a sticker, but on this occasion I bit my tongue. As I had just found out, when my mouth causes trouble it is the rest of my body that gets punished.
HAVE A CRACK AT WRITING
EROTIC FICTION
The suggestion of including this innocuous-sounding challenge to my bucket list came up after some of my female friends got sick and tired of me criticising the 2012 book of the year, Fifty Shades of Grey by E.L. James.
I have not read the book, but I have flicked through it and read enough pages to know it is rubbish. Nowhere near as bad as this book you are holding right now, but still pretty bad.
Even though I struggled to see what the fuss was all about, there was no denying that Fifty Shades of Grey and the two other books that made up the trilogy had struck a chord with women around the world.
‘How hard can it be?’ I reasoned, to write some erotic fiction. Come to think of it, that very question could even count as erotic fiction in its own right!
I sat down with a glass of wine and got to work.
And, if I do say so myself, I have done well. My multi-layered erotic fiction is romantic and passionate, but also incredibly raw and confrontational, with intense sexual chemistry between the narrator and her love interest. But that is just my assessment—you can decide for yourself.
My only criticism of my erotic fiction would be that, much like my sexual encounters in real life, my story is remarkably brief.
So here it is. You know about Fifty Shades of Grey. Now get a taste of Eight Slices of Pizza.
‘I’m coming,’ I shouted as I heard him tapping rhythmically on my back door. Through the frosted glass I could see his massive package and knew it was Harish from Hell’s Pizza. I didn’t usually go for Indian guys but Harish was different—he was hotter than a Mumbai curry.
‘Great to see you, Harish,’ I whispered as I handed over my money and deliberately let my fingers linger on his palm.
‘Open up your box, miss,’ Harish instructed me in his deliciously thick Indian accent.
Naturally I obliged. I lifted the flaps and we both had a look inside. It was greasy and moist . . . but smelt incredible.
‘One vegetarian pizza and lemon pepper wedges. Is this your order, miss?’ Harish asked.
‘Not exactly, Harish,’ I replied teasingly. ‘I was hoping for a mouthful of some of YOUR spicy salami.’
He knew what I was getting at. He threw me up onto the kitchen bench and tore my onesie off. He removed his belt bag and started to take off his Hell’s Pizza jacket and visor.
‘Please, Harish’ I begged, ‘leave the uniform on.’
He promised me he would be quick, explaining that the wedges get soggy if they are left too long. Such a gentleman.
Finally, we were together as one. He wanted me. And I needed him. Just like he kneads the dough to make the pizza base.
Within minutes, Harish was finished. I lay naked, breathless and panting on my formica bench while he clicked his belt bag back on and made his way towards the door.
‘Harish, where are you going?’ I gently spoke.
‘Miss,’ he replied, ‘I am going to Hell.’
WRITE A BOOK
My fourteen-year-old niece, Billie, sent me a message on Facebook:
Nana sez u r writing a book bout YOLO. Soooooooooooooo cool. I’ll most def read it.
I managed to decipher the bulk of her message but I didn’t have a clue what the YOLO bit was all about.
I really do find it hard to keep up with all the acronyms the kids use these days. It seems that just as I learn what ROFL means, the kids are no longer rolling on the floor laughing anymore. Nope, by then they have all started pissing themselves as they laugh, or PMSL.
I could have just replied to Billie and asked WTF YOLO is. But doing that would expose me as being old and out of touch. I am both these things. I know it. And since I am twenty-five years older than her, Billie knows it, too. B
ut there is no need to highlight it.
Instead I grabbed a piece of paper and tried to crack the code myself. These acronyms are usually not too hard to work out. I say ‘usually’ because there is the odd exception. Like the months I spent signing off my texts with an ‘LOL’ before my younger sister, Charlotte, put me straight on this one after my wife and I had a failed round of IVF (in-vitro fertilisation, not an acronym the kids use too much on Facebook).
The text exchange that took place went something like this:
Me: Bad news. No embryos survived. Very sad. LOL
Char: Dominic, that is NOT funny.
Me: I know. We are gutted. LOL
Char: Well why the fuck do you keep saying LOL? It’s sick.
Me: Eh?
Char: I don’t think joking about this is appropriate.
Me: LOL = Lots of love.
Char: Ummm no it doesn’t. LOL = Laugh out loud.
Me: Fuck!!!! LOL
So the YOLO thing that my teenage niece was on about had me scratching my head a bit. All I could think was ‘You Obviously Love Something-beginning-with-O’.
But my book was most definitely not about people who were big fans of Oprah, Oasis, Ohakune, ointment or anything else starting with that vowel.
A quick visit to the great website Urban Dictionary provided me with the answer. And my niece Billie was right. In a way my book was about YOLO.
YOLO = YOU ONLY LIVE ONCE
Acronym for You Only Live Once. Mainly used to defend doing something badass, something that takes balls, or something a person wouldn’t do on a normal everyday basis.
Still, it is a pretty silly-sounding acronym. I would urge anyone contemplating getting a ‘YOLO’ tattoo not to rush into it. It would be terrible if you went out and got a YOLO tattoo because YOLO and then everyone stopped saying YOLO. A safer bet might be to get a carpe diem tattoo. It pretty much means the same thing but will make you seem a bit more intelligent. Chicks dig Latin. But, then again, why the hell would you take tattoo advice from a man who has a picture of a trampoline on the small of his back?
So, this is it, the end of an error. And I must say, I have learned a lot. These are the biggest lessons I got from this whole experience:
Rose-tinted glasses are real
The brain is a tricky old thing. With the right amount of time, even things which were horrible can be looked back at fondly—like being beaten up by a girl. The three minutes Daniella Smith and I shared in the boxing ring were absolute terror for me. And the damage her fists did to my torso caused me discomfort which lasted long after the fight. But the bruises heal, the swelling goes down, and then you can look back and laugh. I can’t see it ever happening in this lifetime, but if I ever got back into the ring with Diamond Daniella it would be because I was wearing rose-tinted glasses when I agreed to such a rematch. I can only hope that she has a personal policy about not hitting a man with glasses.
Memories last longer than the pain
By getting out of your comfort zone and doing something a bit daring or risky for a few minutes, you actually give yourself a lifetime of memories. And the bigger the risk, the bigger the reward. In other words, the more anxious and scared you are before doing something, the more memorable it will be.
Facing your fears doesn’t mean you conquer them
Whoever came up with that idea was full of it. It’s a nice slogan for a Nike poster but it’s simply not true. A lot of us fear getting injections, but facing them doesn’t mean they become any less scary.
Usually things aren’t as bad as you imagine them to be In the process of writing this book I experienced a lot of ‘Is that it?’ moments. Sometimes we build things up in our minds to the point where most of the fear comes from our own imaginations rather than the actual ‘thing’ itself.
Doing interesting things makes you a more interesting person
This one is probably a no-brainer for most people but it was an epiphany for me. Because I love a good comfort zone and have a fairly predictable routine, my contributions to conversations are often limited to stuff I have read on the internet or seen on the telly. While doing these things and writing this book, if someone said to me, ‘So, what have you been up to lately?’ instead of replying with the stock standard, ‘Nah, nothing much, eh,’ I was able to come up with something far more exciting.
The best experiences are shared experiences
Most enjoyable things are made more enjoyable if they are shared with someone else, the exception possibly being a bowl of ice cream—nobody wants to share that!
On the flipside, terrible experiences are easier to get through if there is someone else doing it with you. I’d be a terrible liar if I said the trip to the gay sauna was anything other than terrifying. But there is no doubt it was made way less scary thanks to my wingman, Robert Scott, coming along with me. And it has given the pair of us old mates something new to laugh about—the sauna visit gets brought up pretty much every time we catch up.
I am still an idiot
All these lessons I learned are probably quite obvious. In fact, it is highly likely you already knew all these things instinctively. But chances are you are not an idiot. For me to figure this stuff out I had to lose a large sum of money in a sports bet, visit a dominatrix, eat at a buffet until I was sick and go cross-dressing.
My name is Dominic Harvey and I am still an idiot.