IN the early 90s I was a lighting designer for a theatre company called Arden Productions. We did Shakespeare and Marlow with a camp twist. I was the straight girl, although the residential bi-sexual star always got excited whenever he saw 'signs' of lesbianism in me; like the time I turned up to rehearsal in bike shorts and Blundstone boots with hairy legs and short hair-do one day. But I digress...
After a show one night, a few cast and crew came up to see me in the bio-box. I rolled a joint, as you do, and, for want of a safe place to keep it, I popped it down my cleavage. This was an ideal spliff pocket: the joint was cosily nestled where it couldn't possibly break or be detected as we made our way out to the dark street to smoke it.
We found a discreet patch of nature strip and stood expectantly in a circle. Someone produced a lighter. I reached down into my special place to retrieve the object of our anticipation. But it was gone. Oh shit. It must've fallen down inside my top. No, not there. I checked the cleave again. I prised my breasts apart and shoved my fingers down to my belly button, but I couldn't find the joint. We all started checking the ground, hunched over and lifting our feet up carefully to avoid stepping on the joint. En masse, we retraced our steps all the way back to the bio-box in the theatre. The joint was lost, or so it seemed, until I looked into my bosom once more. There it was. It had been there all the time. Snug as a bug in a rug.
Ten years later, I was in a 60s girl group covers band. We did a 3 hour show to appreciative crowds at RSLs and football clubs and Tabarets all over rural Victoria and NSW. We wore short skirts, back-combed wigs, false eyelashes and so much make-up we looked like drag queens if you got too close. At the end of the night we'd each be handed a wad of cash. My costume didn't have pockets, so I'd pop the notes into my bra. Usually a little got spent on drinks afterwards, so I'd have a few coins down there as well by the time we got to the musty motel room at 3am. Drinking would continue as we removed our make-up and got undressed before stumbling into bed. Every morning after one of these gigs, I'd wake up and drag myself to the bathroom where I would discover, looking at myself in the mirror, all my notes and coins still stuck to my boob, still clinging there even after taking off my bra the night before.
After a show one night, a few cast and crew came up to see me in the bio-box. I rolled a joint, as you do, and, for want of a safe place to keep it, I popped it down my cleavage. This was an ideal spliff pocket: the joint was cosily nestled where it couldn't possibly break or be detected as we made our way out to the dark street to smoke it.
We found a discreet patch of nature strip and stood expectantly in a circle. Someone produced a lighter. I reached down into my special place to retrieve the object of our anticipation. But it was gone. Oh shit. It must've fallen down inside my top. No, not there. I checked the cleave again. I prised my breasts apart and shoved my fingers down to my belly button, but I couldn't find the joint. We all started checking the ground, hunched over and lifting our feet up carefully to avoid stepping on the joint. En masse, we retraced our steps all the way back to the bio-box in the theatre. The joint was lost, or so it seemed, until I looked into my bosom once more. There it was. It had been there all the time. Snug as a bug in a rug.
Ten years later, I was in a 60s girl group covers band. We did a 3 hour show to appreciative crowds at RSLs and football clubs and Tabarets all over rural Victoria and NSW. We wore short skirts, back-combed wigs, false eyelashes and so much make-up we looked like drag queens if you got too close. At the end of the night we'd each be handed a wad of cash. My costume didn't have pockets, so I'd pop the notes into my bra. Usually a little got spent on drinks afterwards, so I'd have a few coins down there as well by the time we got to the musty motel room at 3am. Drinking would continue as we removed our make-up and got undressed before stumbling into bed. Every morning after one of these gigs, I'd wake up and drag myself to the bathroom where I would discover, looking at myself in the mirror, all my notes and coins still stuck to my boob, still clinging there even after taking off my bra the night before.
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