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"Heads up!" Spike yelled, as he flung yet another pair of Hawaiian-print speedos at my face. Delicately scraping them off, I stared at the worn-out, stained innards and sighed. A whole week with this pathetic dick.
If a whole week sounds like a long time, that's because it is. By this time, it was late Saturday afternoon, and Spike and I were shite bored: so it was decided we'd walk around for a bit and see the sights, hear the sounds, and inhale the smells of our new home for the next half a fortnight.
Putting on a shirt, Spike and I ventured out into the great beyond, plodding towards the direction of the famous 'Cavill Avenue'. I saw on TV once that girls who just finished school are supposed to whip out their boobs and dangle them off balconies when drunk men yell at them. Not once did I see this happen. Disappointed and hungry, we headed towards the Gold Coast's ultimate symbol of superiority over it's lesser sibling the Sunshine Coast: The 24hr Hungry Jacks. Forcing an entire serving of large chips down his throat, Spike almost missed being called a turd by a fellow Sunshine Coast Kid. That's right everybody, our favourite little musician, Jacob Horsey, snuck up right behind us and assulted Spike with his trademark rapid-fire wit. Then, as suddenly as he appeared, he ran off in the direction of the 24hr McDonalds.
Still laughing, I ran after him so I wouldn't have to hang out with Spike anymore.
Unfortunately, Jacob was stabbed soon after, so I was left alone... by myself.

Unless your drunk, on E, a hippy or a retard, Cavill can actually be pretty fucking boring. After reading the Courier Mail and doing the crossword in the 24hr McDonalds, I ordered a chicken fillet burger and hung around looking lost for a bit.

But then - my luck was about to change.

"Ptwoip!" A spitball hit me right in the forehead. About to deck whoever the fuck would dare do such a thing to such a tough looking dude, my demeanor changed as I saw who was the culprit. My heart skipped a beat, my head was drained of all violent fluid, and my fists unclenched as I saw her standing before me; badly-dyed black hair, caramel brown-eyes too big for their sockets, a complexion seemingly seven eighths mother's milk, and a forehead that came up to my chin which just screamed, 'I'm an easy root'. She also had pretty big boobs.
So there she was, my fantasy woman in the flesh, replete with McDonalds straw wedged elegantly between her strawberry-sweet lips. Oh, if only I or a part of me were that straw!
Obviously pleased with her own wiley and irreverent tom-foolery (and heavily under the influence of some mind-altering inhabitants) she burst into a fit of mutually pleasing giggles, and fell into my gaping arms.
"Ahh.... I'm sorry... but that was funny!" my newly-found female friend dribbled, randomly speeding-up and slowing-down her speech. Instantantly forgiven, I promptly introduced myself, then asked the young cherub what her name might be.
"Sammy..." she replied with one eye shut, still cradled in my ever cavernous arms.
Sammy. Sam-mee: A sharp discharge of air passing through a petite gap between palate and tongue, the lips clapping together allowing the throat to emit the gleefully simplistic 'eee'. Sam. Mee.

"Well right then chippy skippo... we misty musty gonads now, I is bored..." she said, tapping my shins with her Bananas in Pyjamas slippers (Oh, avant qu'on se couche!).

"Come along, sexy," I said, whisking her away from the throng of gabber-jawed youngsters who had since crowded 'round to witness young love at it's most gentle and pure. "The Boudoir of Bronson awaits!" shouted I to the crowd, creating a dramatic exit the likes of The Joker (or any other supervillian with a flair for theatrics) would be proud of.

Bronson DeLarge. Bronson DeMighty. Bronson DeLorean.
Looking back, I think I would've really liked having sex with Sammy that night, so early into our relationship. Alas, it was not to be. As soon as we got back to her apartment, she vomited all over my Jetsons T-shirt and started regailing me with badly sung Cat Stevens tunes. Thankfully though, she started throwing up mid-Rubylove and had to dash off to the bathroom.
Never one to miss up an opportunity, I ran after her, eager to cop a feel or two off the vulnerable and drunken Ms. Sammy something.
There's something strangely erotic about holding a girl by the hair as she violently expurgates the bulk of the contents of her stomach into a hotel lavvy. Nice. I swear I saw her bra at least twice.
"There there," I said, patting her on the head with my right hand, the left still pre-occupied with a fistful of her angel's harp hair. "Let me fix you up there, honeycheeks."
Just as I was folding some toilet paper to dab away the adorably placed chunks of saliva and bolus from her chin, she let fourth with one more tornado of intestinally-charged excreta before passing out.

Clearly there was no longer any chance of a root, so I left. After writing down where she was staying, I walked back to my apartment, looking forward to taking out my sexual frustrations on a sleepy and unexpecting Spike.