When sorry is not enough
Sometimes, a public apology is not enough and you can still lose your job. In Barry Lowe’s case, he lost his flat – and the promise of more sex.
Greetings fellow faecal masses.
Have you noticed not a day goes by without someone stumbling over an apology for something they’ve done or said usually as a result of their mouth or their dick not connecting to their brain? In my day apologies were kept for things like not douching well enough before anal sex, or upchucking your guts up all over your one-night stand after he forced you to swallow.
You’d think people in the era of mobile phone cameras and social media, especially those whose livelihood relies on the good opinion of the paying public, would be more circumspect in what they had to say. It seems not. How else do you explain Gary Oldman shooting his career in the foot by mouthing off about Jews and fags, while Georgian opera singer, Tamar Iveri, made a hash of the apology for her spewfest of gay hatred by blaming everyone but herself and got caught out in the lies.
It’s not that I object so much to be called one of the ‘faecal masses’ – I’ll wear that slur with pride and hope someone is already making the T-shirt – but I do have a problem with her idea that we perhaps need to be taught a lesson by having our jaws broken.
Somewhere in life most of us have to make a humiliating backdown, although perhaps not as publicly as the abovementioned shit for brains. My most hideous public grovel didn’t involve a loss of employment although I did lose my flat. We’re talking the 1960s here. I lived in Gladesville with Frank and the notorious Maude – he of the false teeth that had to be fished out of the toilet after his drunken weekend debauches.
Private parties were the big social events in those days and there was fierce competition for attendance.
Our third floor walk-up flat was in out-of-the-way Gladesville so Frank hit upon the idea of offering me as bait. I was slim and blond and rather fancied myself as a bit of a slut, the definition of which was someone who swallowed or licked arse.
There must have been a dearth of parties that night because, within an hour of the pubs closing, the flat was crowded and men were lining up down the stairs demanding entrance and payment, that payment being me. I was in the bedroom, flat on my back, on kneeling doggy fashion, taking cock in my arse (and in my throat if they’d brought a mate) as fast as my sphincter could milk them.
Who knew being a slut could be so painful? Or so messy? I lost count (if not consciousness) before Frank burst into the room to inform me we were headed for a full-scale riot unless we did something. I went into the lounge room, stood on a chair and called for attention. I apologised humiliatingly for the crush and the fact my anus could only take one cock at a time. I asked people to kindly vacate the premises because the police were on their way. After a few nasty accusations of welching on the deal, I reluctantly offered a raincheck to anyone who wanted to claim sexual satisfaction in the future. All they had to do was approach me in a bar or return to the flat at a later date.
Part of that offer became moot when the landlord kicked us out the following week. For months afterwards, however, strangers approached me to make good on the raincheck and claim my arse as their prize.
[Main image] In his youth, Barry Lowe endured the wrath of broken promises