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Not one but three impish lasses, frolic in suburbia knowing oh yes, they can do whatever they like. And they do, testing the boundaries of their surprisingly ever-growing power as women.

Blowing off shitty part time jobs in restaurants to revel and dance naked in a very ordinary land-locked backyard on blisteringly hot summer days under inviting garden sprinklers. Just for the girls, eighteen year old fun, invite only. And there were no invites.

Topless beach-side sunbathing was amusing too, knowing it teased their male acquaintances.

But their game was to pretend they didn’t realise the impact. Most often because they didn’t quite believe in themselves anyway.

Teasing and deciding they too, could behave as the boys and men did. Nonchalantly and bravely. Not looking for love. Use and discard as they desired. Easy and painless, they told themselves.

This was their world, where fun and sex pushed away other realities.

Men, they had if they wanted. But none were invited to these private parties, nubile paganish nudes, most pleased with themselves and the sense of freedom these little parties generated.

Rebelling perhaps, against the vanilla world they inhabited? Most likely. Completely at sea in their urbanite lives? Definitely.

Later, three bedrooms in that house were busy as they enjoyed their male playthings. But on their terms, when they chose, only.

Their attitude was arrogance, flippant fun and constant amusement. With scant thought for their own value.

But she was grateful to her sometime male lover, given her experience of sex to date was not pleasant. So surfer-dude C, a gentle non-masochistic sunny blonde, was a revelation.

Still, she wanted nothing more than the occasional dalliance, given her fractured sense of self.

When a friend of one of these hormone driven gals suggested a way to make fast money – serving beer topless – they weren’t perturbed in the least. Getting paid to tease men and give up nothing? Too easy.

One by one, they tested the waters.

She was last – first, she quit the final year of high school she was repeating. Bored, she had no direct ambition that made sense. So she quit, and started wearing little and earning a lot. Why not? It was so simple.

The location of that first gig is hazy now. Though, the pub’s interior is crystal clear. A central oblong circus ring shaped bar with dark coloured tiles, surrounded by reverential working class men.

The three of them were together, ring leaders of this event.

Her friends helped adjust her newly purchased g-string and tiny black satin shorts – all that she wore. She stepped into heels and make up. Then it was time.

Men were both lecherous and kindly. She knew nothing of serving alcohol, and learned on the hop. A shandy? A pot? A glass? Mixed drinks? The patrons mostly taught her the ropes, not minding an excuse to talk stare at her bare breasts a little longer.

The most memorable part of that day? Beer splashing on her breasts was cold but inevitable, and it made the men laugh.


Please note: I am writing here about the past, and mostly its in the past. I do this to help shine the light and illustrate where I was, and how I got to this point. This is no longer stuff that torments me.