The lost chapters:

Chapter 4

It’s late evening when Duke arrives from his rugby game, changed from his playing gear, yet still carrying half the tuff on his knees.

‘Can I have a shower?” He asks, he does not have to, but always does. No sooner, than he is in the shower, Scott arrives. Hot, sweaty, and still wearing his fitness instructor’s gear - the girls at the YMCA love him, in his black tight fitting shorts.

‘Hi Graham, I am off to shower and change’.

‘You better wait till Duke is finished, unless you want to join him?’

‘Don’t mind’. Was his answer - shedding his clothes like leaves in winter, disappearing into the bathroom.

Chapter 5

The place is a new ten-story apartment block with scaffolding being erected and cladding removed. It’s a victim of the water tightness issues’, resulting from the use of untreated timbers, incorrect use of wall panelling, poor supervision and unskilled tradesman’s and in some cases plan greed by developers. Anyway, this has nothing to do with us. I park the Rover next to the no parking sign and in front of the site office gate. In an undignified manner the troupe of party-goers enter the building through the plate glass swing doors with polished chrome “D” handles. We‘re faced with the choice of three elevators. We take the first. Stella grooms herself in the bronzed coloured wall mirrors while Robert runs his fingers through his hair.

‘I’m looking good and ready for a great score.’ Said by Ben, just as the elevator stops, ejecting its load. We march in single file, led by our benefactor to apartment six, where we encounter couples spread up and down the hallway, some on red lines, some on yellows and some on green lines. The door to the apartment is open, people are packed in like sardines, and like cattle to the water-trough, we’re herded to the booze bar. Confronting us are swingers saddling their partners – couples prostituting on the glass coffee table, the two-setter couch, the bed-settee with matching cushions, and others performing acts on the new modern grey short pile carpet.

Gingerly with drunken caution we clamber our way over and around naked limbs and exposed body parts - the opened bi-fold patio doors are letting in the night’s cool air, while allowing the smell of alcohol escape into the night - along with the sounds of vinyl, fuelling the city with Jefferson Aeroplane, Jimmy Hendricks, Dylan, Cream, Janis Joplin. Unanimously the assembled sing - “Me and Bobby McGee”, followed by “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”.

More difficult than climbing “Everest” we arrive at the bar, finding stacked against the front – bodies of the spent brigade. Drenched over the bar top – constructed from one plank of polished swamp kauri, is the barkeeper elect, using a antique “Bakelite” pencil box as a pillow and covering his exposed posterior, a poster that reads “Garry on drinking.” He is long past caring and engulfed by bottles of Speight’s, Tui - Lion Red, Waikato, Export Gold, plus “Johnny Walker” and for the wine drinkers “Montana Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc”.

Chapter 6

This party is what every red-blooded male dream’s of – free booze, good music, and convivial sex. Cannabis, ecstasy, cocaine and magic mushrooms – stoned out of our heads, charges are we will end up on the two-setter couch with a tranny or sharing an uncomfortable bed-settee with someone’s mother, or worse on the floor with the family dog.

Un-fazed Scott finds a spot behind the black vinyl couch.

‘I’m off behind the couch.’ Scott advertising his intention to us all, with his loot of free alcohol and a person of interest - a young slim female figure dressed in a see-through fishnet shift, and if not, for two strategically placed black nipple covers, her breasts are there for all to admire and to the approval of Ben – who wants to join them.

‘Get your own pussy’. Scott laughs and dives to the floor without dropping a bottle or his grip of his conquest for the night.

People come and go, as do the trains at “Britomart Transport Station”, and like the ticket collectors - the “Casanova’s” are doing the circuit selecting only the vulnerable and most legless – because rejection will be unbearable at this late stage.

‘Over here'. Ben shouts.

He has found a soul mate - a discarded hussy wearing a skimpy skin-tight dress, with bright yellow eyes lighting up her head, desperate to make out with a personal trainer.

At school Ben was always last to hand in his home work, always found himself at the front of the class, always volunteering to put the chairs onto the desks at the end of day. Over the last year or two, he has slowly increased his body mass - with abs and muscles to match. He is a fine example of a man. My body has stayed the same, even after some sessions in the gym and eating full carbonated diets.

I watch Ben exist the room by the patio doors with “Lady Godiva”. I turn to Duke - who is taking the opportunity to stockpile more than his share of alcohol - and at the top of my voice - I’m screaming.

‘I’m going to have a look around, maybe I’ll find a spare pair of legs’.

Duke laughs and falls over – landing rather heavily on top of a pair of firm round ski slop type breasts belonging to a naked and well proportion able-bodied structure.

‘Careful there fella - you can hurt yourself landing on these things’. The voice was sweet and mellow. Duke’s was in love. Her words, he will wear around his shoulder - like a child’s cuddly blanket for warmth and security.

‘I’m Vicky. Who are you?’ ‘Duke’.

‘Drink?’

‘Great’. Responding in simultaneous harmony.

The beautiful people hop, skip and jump into the sophisticated art of love making – leaving me to work the flat, like a insurance or encyclopaedia salesman - vigorously bewildering with expert sale techniques, the free spirited, stoned, frustrated, helpless lost soles - selecting only the women able to satisfy my desire.

‘Hi there how are you - looking for company?'

Mentally undressing them as I speck - entering names and phone numbers into my black book for future reference to provide company on those long and dark nights, with a glass of wine and dark chocolate - watching reruns of decade old television programs.

Chapter 7

Dressed and feed. Ready to vacate and terrorize the population. Keys in hand, I’m first into the lift and first out to my car - a 1955 cream Rover 90. I paid $1500.00 dollars for it. It has real polished timber dashboard panel, a bench driver’s seat and a chrome gear stick. Between 1954 and 1959 – 35,891 “Rover 90s” were manufactured.

The others fight over the passenger’s seat – Dukes wins. The defeated fall into the back. Scott forced into the centre - Ash behind me, Ben behind Duke.

The Rover struggles to achieve “Stig's” - nought to sixty - in 20 seconds criteria. These are not the days of sober drivers, nor the wearing of seat belts and drink driving restrictions. Showing no fear or any thoughts of the consequence of behaviour, we speed into the night of seduction. We will take no prisoners, offer no mercy, nor show sorrow or pity.

It takes us ten minutes to arrive at our first stop. “The Occidental” in Valcan Lane, built sometime in 1870 by an American – Edward Perkins.

We make our way to the second floor bar - Ash disappears to the loo.

‘I’ll get the first round in’, shouting over the music.

‘Don’t forget Ash’, Duke calls in return.

The bar tenders are busy and there is a small queue waiting to be served – I’m standing behind a legged blond, close enough to touch their arse – I re-frame from doing that.

The band is in full swing and loud. I manage to place our order of five bottles of Heineken, five Steinlager Pure and five Speight’s Gold. In total, fifteen 33ml bottles - accompanied with five packets of Smith’s Salt and Vinegar potato chips. I score a hand full of salted nuts from a bowl - one that a thousand hands have already ploughed through. All the stools at the bar are occupied, so we find a table far from the band and to the left of the exit door.

'Sit down Graham, we only have an hour if we are going to keep to our schedule'.

'Okay'. I pass the bottles around, tear open the bags of chips.

It does not take long for the hour to disappear when you’re having fun, and that was exactly what Wendy, our newfound friend was having with me. She is a short girl with a full rounded shaped body; struggling to stay in her tight black outfit. On tip-toes, she extends to my shoulders.

We are onto the last bottles and packets of chips, when we realize that Ash has not returned. Concerned, I slip out from under Wendy.

'Where you going?'

'I'm going to look for Ash.'

'Who?'

'Never mind.'

Chapter 8

Worst for wear we hit the road - without Ash. Rita - another female conquest joins us. Our next port of call is “Brew on Quay” - an up market nightclub, specialising in craft beers. It’s in a historical building; still maintaining links to the past. With dark stained Kauri timber flooring and timber panelled walls – a unique feature, adding texture and stunning tones to the interior. The individual tables all complemented with deep comfortable captain chairs of real leather.

‘Get a load of that’. My attention is drawn to the table three from us.

‘Who”

‘The redhead’. Brushing away the smoke rings of his exhaled “Phillip Morris”, I can see her eyes - like sparking diamonds, returning his stare. After a moment of flirtation, and responding to some unseen gesture, both migrate towards the bar.

‘Hello; what’s your name?’

‘Rita’; and yours?

‘Duke; are you with someone special?’ Spoken like a prick who cares.

‘No one in particular’. Was the answer, and that was all the encouragement Duke needed.

So the redhead Rita is lured from her friends with the promise of a good time.

She has an hourglass shape body - her hips and bust are almost equal in size, separated only by a narrow waist. To me she looks about 19, no more than 1.5cm, in height and weighting in about 65kgs. I’m sure most of her weight is from the jewellery she’s wearing. First, to attract your attention is the silver ring through her nose, connected by a chain to one of the large circular earrings. Her left arm is in cased by the abundance of colourful bracelets. Next, your eyes are draw to her midriff, where you can feast on her belly button’s stud. She may have pierced nipples and clit, but can’t tell just yet. Sitting on Duke’s knee, she looks good and offers us a view of her clean-shaven fanny. That also looks good.

Rita has no problem consuming Ash’s share of the booze and chips, as if there is no tomorrow. Duke attempts to retrieve the overflow of chips that are disappearing into her cleavage without much luck.

‘I‘ll eat them later’.

‘Can I help?

Her answer was; wait, and see.

****

The others are unaware of the reason for Ash’s absence and pour into the car. Ben next to me, Scott and Duke sandwich Rita and Wendy into the back seat. The girls remove their dresses, becoming objects of playful teasing and groping. The erotic sexual activity of naked skin, smacking on the leather seats, is causing the windows to steam up, and making it very difficult to drive.