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TED MULRY'S WET DREAM Nicki Clarke When I was 17 my best friend and I used to go to the Ferntree Gully Hotel every Friday night. We'd hitchhike back to Glen Waverly in the early hours of the morning, walking drunkenly in giggling camaraderie down long stretches of dark road. One night two young men picked us up who decided it would be good fun to go to Skyhigh Lookout at Mt. Dandenong. When we got there, the four of us got out of the car, and my friend went off with one of the guys. I stood with the other, the driver, looking down at the lights of the city, so far away. "It would take ages to walk from here." His meaning was clear. In the car, my feet braced against the dashboard, he berated me for my passivity. I was not getting into it. I was not a party girl after all. "Move like ya mean it." My friend and the other guy returned. She complained about having gravel stuck in her bum. The speedo hit 130k going down the mountain and I was sure we would die. He struck a bargain; he would slow down if I would suck his dick. I willed myself not to bite. Terror kept my mouth rigid and my lips clamped around my teeth. They let us out at a servo in Glen Waverly. As we walked away, the driver wound down his window and yelled, "What's ya name again? Can I have your number?" There's no moral to this story. Draw your own conclusions.