The kids at my school were driven up to the front door in all manner of machines. Remember, I was fascinated with cars from birth, so it would seem, so this is pure admiration of cars, more so than anything else.
Boys and cars, isn’t that what life is all about.
Early on, in primary school, one kid's mum drove a silver Falcon GTHO. I loved it. I remember my school mate’s mum telling my dad, one afternoon when they were waiting for us, that she wanted to get rid of the car because it got something like 4 mpg, but it was her husband’s dream car. Problem was that she was the one stuck driving it, mostly, as her husband had a company car.
She was pretty, blonde, big smile, and my dad was a sucker for a pretty face. I remember she had cleavage, and a strappy brown leather dress/top. I saw that stupid look on my father's face, that I would see again, and again, being so closely positioned to a very nice set of tits. Barely contained idiot grin trying to sound serious. I turned up and while I was getting into the car, I heard that much.
My brother was home sick, my sister had caught the tram home on a half day, and my dad had finished early, so he was waiting at the front door for me.
"Anyway, got to be going. His brother is home already, so that’s us ready to go," said Dad. He glanced back smiling several times.
My father drove us to, or picked us up from, school. It was always my father, never my mother. Dad worked in the neighbourhood to our schools, my mother never did.
Rich's mum dropped him and his brother off early in the morning, in a red 911 in the early days, replaced by a gold 911 half way through school. She was always at the gate at the end of the day waiting for them, in the early days. Years later, my music teacher suggested it might have been a custody situation. His father was some big shot who was used to getting his way.
Not so many 2 door Mercedes, but still a couple of SLs, I guess they were the only children’s cars.
Mark D's mum would turn up in her big 2 door Bense, maggoted to pick up Mark and his brother. They'd often be standing there waiting for her to turn up when the cleaners turned up at the deserted school, even though they, really, lived walking distance from the school, but Shirley forbade them to walk in case something bad happened to them. Life is pregnant with irony.
The mother of 2 boys, the family of a well know real estate chain – amongst a handful S & E class motors driven predominantly by mothers – (I can’t name them as they are still a household name) drove a big gold 4 door S Class Mercedes, resplendent with a red wig, jungle red lippy and chunky gold jewellery. Her sons were not attractive, and both of them turned out to be gay and tortured.
One of the fathers drove the very first GTR Nissans, his wife drove a V8 Fairmont Station wagon to pick up her brood of sons. The four blond surfie type Grey boys would be dropped off by their dad in the morning, and picked up by their mum in the afternoon.
Three brothers, the Carter boys, with a white stripe in their hair, whose father had the same stripe, I saw at our finally year assembly, their father drove a maroon Jaguar. Another set of brothers got dropped off in a Range Rover.
There were two other sets of 4 brothers that went to my school, the Millers and the Batten-Garys and I had sex with the youngest from two of them. One was in grade 4, Nathan Miller, when I first got to the school. The other was just after we’d left school with Anthony Batten-Gary. We picked each other up at the lights of Camberwell Junction, 6pm winters night. I did him over the bonnet of his Peugeot, his pants around his ankles, in the industrial section of Camberwell. He had condoms and lube. I never questioned that he’d have that in his car. And don’t think I wasn’t thinking of his older brothers as well as we screwed in the failing light.
There were plenty of Saabs an Landcruisers, like my mum and dad drove.
I don’t know if it was my burgeoning sexuality, but the sets of brothers, at my school were something to look at. The Miller boys, dark and athletic, the Shugg boys, had great legs and sexy arses and were dark blond (I do wonder if my arse ‘thing’ came from the Shugg boys. I can still picture them, thick thighs and beefy arses stretching their grey school pants), the Batten-Gary boys, also dark and athletic, the Carter boys, who were the most alike, like different sized versions of the same person, and the blonde Grey boys, were all impossibly good looking. I guess it was me being gay. Each one was a progression on the younger one, in handsomeness and sexiness. You could see the development as you looked from one to the other. I have a bit of a kink for brothers, I’m wondering if this is where it started?
Then you had the communal change rooms for sport when I’d see one, or more, of the brothers in stages of undress and I’d have wank fodder for days.
One of my class mates got dropped off by his barrister father in his dark blue Triumph Stag, black leather seats. The grumble of the Stag V8, nothing sounds so sweet, on a cold winters day it is pure poetry.
One kid's mum drove a blue Maserati Ghibli. Apparently, his dad drove a Maserati too, but I'm sure I never saw it.
The Shugg boys were driven in a metallic blue, fuel inject 5 speed Citroen D series, by their mother. It just seemed to swoop in effortlessly, hover, pick up the boys and then float away again. I was endlessly captivated by it.
"A Goddess," my mum Lottie would say all breathlessly, if she ever saw a D series. She said she always wanted one, but, of course, never got one.
“Really? A D series?”
“Oh yes please.” Then Lottie would do that thing with her tongue, like a snake. “Lovely. Those swooping lines. But your father would never be in it.”
The Shuggs father drove a Range Rover.
Lottie was no slouch, she could get into anyone of our cars and drive it. One Xmas day I’d arrived in my MGB with the top down and we needed some butter, or something crucial for the lunch, and Lottie in a mild panic picked up keys and said, “Whose are these?”
“Mine,” I said.
“I have to go to the shops.” And moments later the MGB fired up and took off up our street.
My best mate at school's mum drove a D series wagon. She picked up a priceless crockery set from the airport. She was nearly home, her Toorak Street was in sight, she had her blinker on, and a guy came through a stop sign T-boning the D series wagon, smashing the crockery set to pieces.
A famous criminal’s sons went to our school, they got driven to school in a Monaro.
Do you reckon I went to a posh school?
We knew we went to a posh school. But we never really thought we went to a posh school. I suspect, we didn’t even really know what that was? It was just school to us.
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