Award-winning* author Don Gordon-Brown presents another chapter from his probably-never-to-be released autobiographical tome, Don Brown’s School Daze, about his five years at Gatton College.
In the years since being banned for life from Queensland Agricultural College, I have often joked that one suspension – forced to live off college for a full term – came about only because a harmless incident with a stud jersey heifer down in a paddock near Farm Square one night had been blown out of all proportion by college authorities hell-bent, for reasons I still find inexplicable, on bringing me down.
I’ve always argued that any incident with Maybeline Meadowbank Leigh the Third, if indeed it happened at all, was a consensual one and that she had never, ever, lodged a formal complaint with police.
The reasons for making this joke may have something to do with my mother, whom I greatly disappointed throughout that part of her life that had me in it.
Maybe I thought bestiality would be more acceptable to her than the notion that I had spent my time at college banging my balls up against the puckered freckles of some poor fellow students, fucking them with gay abandon, with or without their permission.
You see, I had been turfed off campus for the alleged bastardisation (or is ‘alleged’ redundant if you’ve been found guilty in a kangaroo court of law?) presumably of an undisclosed number of students, and I never explained to my mum what this “bastardisation ” actually entailed or that it didn’t involve any untoward sexual activities, and I’m sure she was too far too afraid to ask.
But jokes aside, I was pretty much a sexual tearaway as a teenager so I must recount one memorable experience – an honest-to-God real one – in the bedroom of my Gatton flat during my banishment for campus. And if my mother was still with us, I’m fairly sure she would be so pleased to know that it involved a female of the human species. Well, maybe not. Even if I told her she was “of age”. And not tied up or stupefied or anything like that. Oh, who am I trying to kid? She was one tough bird.
Now I’m not going to mention this girl’s name, other than to say she was a fellow student at Gatton, if indeed fellow is the right word. Call it a gentlemanly thing to do – the civil, the decent, the right thing to do – but I’ve also taken account the fact that something so terribly bad happened during her time at college that not soon after she left there, she completely changed her name and has reportedly spend decades with mental-health professionals trying to completely erase from her memory her time in the Lockyer Valley.
Anyway, it was on my smelly mattress on the floor in the front bedroom of my flat facing Railway Parade that I gave her what I thought were twelve of the most exciting seconds of her sexual life up to that stage.
I had gotten up and was standing beside the mantelpiece of the fireplace across the room, admiring my handiwork and wondering when and if she would come out of the “la mort petite”, that level of sub-conscious sexual nirvana, that I had expertly put her in.
She finally opened her eyes, perhaps not realising I had finished, and took me in. Let’s just say I was giving all the signs that a second hot sex session was very much on not just my mind but a certain part of my anatomy that was pointing roughly in the direction of Toowoomba up on The Range.
“Most men have a physique that starts wide at the shoulders and tapers down to the waist,” she said, using her hands to indicate the shape she was describing. “Your physique goes the other way,” again using her hands for emphasis, starting close together and moving further apart as she moved them downwards.
A certain part of my anatomy suddenly used its one good eye to notice that the room’s carpet was rather worn and could well do with replacement.
So that wasn’t a very nice thing to say but I was in a pretty satisfied state of mind. Maybe one of euphoria even. It was about 11.50pm on the night of July 31, 1970, and my sexual career with a female of the human species had begun! The long drought had finally been broken, it was time for the first of many tearful break-ups and farewells to Mrs Palmer and her five daughters, and my life as a teenage sexual tearaway had begun with a bang.
I was chuffed although that career as a teenage mad rooter didn’t last long. A few minutes later, on the stroke of midnight, I turned 20. August 1. The birthday of all stud stallions throughout the entire world.
How long it then took me to then become a mad-rooting 20-year-old is something I’d prefer to keep to myself.
* Winner: three-legged race with father at a Methodist church picnic at Zillmere in 1958.