© Copyright 2003

Not long after leaving school, in 1972, I was playing in a band called, 'Swipe.' We played what we called 'Progressive Rock' but what our critics called, 'a horrible noise.'

In the summer, from December here in this hemisphere, we gathered a bit of work peaking in March when the Universities opened. By the end of that month work died away to nothing as winter approached.

So to get us through until the next gig, we all took on temporary jobs.

The Labour Department sent me to the Post Office, a large Government department, then, that ran the telephones and CB Radio as well as the postal services.

They were equiping the country with new telephone technology, to whit, a Japanese NEC crossbar exchange.

The building where I was to work, was purpose-built and brand new. We had to lay all the cables and buzzbars first before the equipment was fitted. This was because everything had to be dustfree when the system was hooked up. Any piece of grit in the wrong place and you could end up ringing Alaska instead of Auckland.

It took us about 3 months to lay all the cables on the overhead racks, there was a hell of a lot of them. Then came the boring job of fanning all the wires out in sequence, tying them up at precise heights from the floor.

The wires were all coded with colours, dots and dashes. Blue dot being the first and highest from the floor, two blue dots next and so forth. It was monotonous and boring.

At the time I was gobbling a lot of LSD, I was high practically every day. Suffice to say I was immediately struggling with the task.

"Hey man what's purple man?"

"There's no purple," the supervisor replied.

"Shit man, it looks purple to me. No, fuck it, it's green now, whoa the dots are moving, that's freaky!"

Needless to say I was the first to be 'downsized.'

At 19 I was still a virgin, despite my earnest efforts. I suffered terribly from shyness at school, especially when it came to the opposite sex.

My only girlfriend hitherto, if you could call her that, was a Samoan/German Jehovah's Witness girl. We walked home from school together, I carried her books and we 'dated' at the school dances.

I never did get to hold her hand, even, let alone take her to the movies. Nope, her first date wasn't going to be until she was 16 and only with a chaperone. I never made the distance, being a form higher, I left school before she did and we lost contact.

Drugs lowered my boundaries and made me the life of the party, or so it seemed to me at the time. But I still went home alone. They left me in such a state, however, that I didn't care.

The people who came to work at the telephone exchange came from all walks of life. They were mostly sent there from the Labour Department, hippies, students, backpackers, dopers, new immigrants, transvestites and the flotsam and jetsam of the seventies.

Of course most of us gravitated towards our own groups. The transvestites were all 'ship girls.' I guess business was slow because they had to take jobs to augment their income from the Japanese shrimp boats. They stuck together and provided a bit of colour to the workplace.

All of us dopers naturally hung about together as well.

One woman became part of our group. Her name was Leila, a short, big breasted Israeli, and Dave, her boyfriend, a bushy haired, bearded hippie dude.

The goods-service area at the back of the building became our lunch time haunt. It was rarely used at the time and was the perfect place to smoke a bit of dope before going back to the grind.

One lunchtime, I noticed that Leila looked a little quiet. Not her usual ebulient self.

"Hey! you out of it today?" I asked her.

"No," she replied, "Dave's leaving and I've got nobody to sleep with."

Now if I'd been a bit more confident, well a lot more, I would have immediately volunteered myself. But in those days it never occured to me that a woman might find me attractive.

"Shit, sorry," was all I could think of saying.

In those days bras were entirely optional and Leila rarely wore one. Her large breasts therefore jiggled under her top at the slightest movement, they fascinated me.

"Would you like to come for dinner tonight and hang out?" she asked.

That was an unmistakeable invitation, even for me. Nevertheless I thought of what my mum was making for dinner on Thursdays before answering. Thursday's had to be sausages so I said ok.

Fot the rest of the afternoon I was trembling with anticipation and self doubt. Did I really read the situation right or was she just being friendly? I didn't want to make a fool of myself.

This was in the days of women's liberation and radical feminism, remember. I would have been mortified to have been branded a 'male chauvinist pig' for putting my hand in the wrong place uninvited.

To some extent, the whole feminist thing had thrown guys like me into the sexual wilderness. I just didn't understand the protocols anymore. Priding myself on being a liberal lefty I wanted to do the 'right' thing but I was constantly in terror of making a political mistake.

"I'm MORE than a sexual object. I have a BRAIN, pig!"

I was in terror of hearing that line.

In truth, I never had any trouble in getting along with women at an intellectual level. I remember talking practically all night to a beautiful blond student who told me all about her job as a masseuse. She even invited me for a free private massage but I was still too scared of making a 'mistake.'

Anyway, I called home to tell my mum I wasn't going to be home for dinner. Surprisingly she was quite happy for me to 'get out a bit.' She was getting worried that I didn't seemed to have any social life.

After work, Leila climbed on the back of my Yamaha 250 motorcycle.

Now, as I said before, Leila was a big girl in the chest department and the Yamaha didn't have a big seat. Therefore I was blessed with having her large beauties snuggled cosily against my back. Her arms wrapped themselves around me tightly. If nothing else happened, the ride was worth it.

Leila was not a natural pillion rider. When we leaned into the corners, she tried to pull the bike upright by leaning the wrong way. With her holding me, therefore, she was dragging me upright too. This lead to some terrifying cornering as the bike staggered around the bends.

Leila's apartment was typically hippy. Beanbags, Che Guevara posters, incense holders, dirty dishes and a stereo consisting of a couple of dayglo-painted guitar amps.

The odd guitar lay about and sweet smelling long-hairs and flowery women were arrayed about in various states of doped-out bliss.

Leila and I picked our way through the lounge over ashtrays, dishes and prone bodies to the kitchen.

A dreadlocked Rhodesian/Zimbabwean girl was cooking up some lentil stew in a large pot. The spicey aroma blended with the Indian incense into a heady mix.

For a guy from the working class suburbs, the exotic surroundings made me very uncomfortable.

After a couple of puffs of some 'weed' I began to relax a bit.

The three of us ate our stew at the kitchen table. I was dimly aware of the lounge gradually emptying of bodies, there was some 'gig' somewhere most of them were off to. That left Leila, Rosa the Rhodesian, and me.

After the meal, Rosa announced she was off to study and disappeared into the rabbit warren of a house. Leila asked me if I wanted to blow some more dope but I declined. I didn't want to get too stoned in case I had to ride home.

We sat in the lounge, Leila finished off a couple of 'roaches'. I sat in a single dusty armchair, not next to her, in case I'd got the wrong 'message.'

Eventually she sat looking at me with a cryptic espression. Sighing, she got up and said,

"Do you want to come to bed?"

"Sure!" I gulped.

I stood up and she took my hand, leading me through the house to her 'pad.'

Her room was bedecked with silk screens that hung down from hooks on the ceiling. On an old dresser there was an old, ornate brass 'hookah' pipe.

Her bed was clean and made, covered with a rug sporting Persian designs.

Leila turned on a red bedside lamp and switched off the main, overhead light. The room shimmered with the pink, eerie glow.

She quickly pulled her top over her head and I was graced with the sight of her bare back, dark pink under the light. She turned to face me and smiled and my mouth went dry.

There in front of me were her magnificent large breasts in all their glory, standing proud from her chest and topped with crimson nipples. Transfixed, I watched them rippling in front of me for a few seconds.

"You like them?" she asked, running her hands over them.

I nodded and swallowed.

"Are you going to get undressed?" she enquired, arching her eyebrows.

"Sure," I said as confidently as I could and began to fiddle with the buttons of my shirt.

Seeing my nervousness she moved up to me and took over. Her breasts were inches away and I wanted to feel them. Seeing me staring, she gave them a little jiggle and took my hands in hers.

"Here," she said and put my hands on either side of her globes.

Well that was the first time I'd ever got to feel real live tits and they felt fantastic! Warm, soft and smooth, I ran my fingertips all around them, my thumbs rubbing her puckering nipples.