Miss Nude Samurai Beach 2000...

Everybody should have at least one weird-arse fan in their lifetime.

I did...

All that I know about my admirer is that he was some loser named Gaz from Tasmania who wrote a letter to a magazine one day to say that he liked my 'ace minge'- which when he said minge, I presumed he meant my vagina. I guess you might be wondering how this particular pervert ever came to see my vagina in the first place, so I'll tell you now; if you like...

This all came about as a result of my very half-arsed attempt at a Glamma-Girl career, where I sent some very tame nudie photos of Myself to two men's mags so I would have enough money to cover the car rego one year. I think in total I got three hundred bucks and a t-shirt. Which was good. What was not so good was that the magazine printed my photos in the very same week that my Ten Year high school reunion was held- and I got the added embarrassment and had to endure my old science teacher's comments about my 'hot little body'. Yuck.

Some of the boys I went to school with also saw me and seriously thought about sticking the pictures up in the foyer of the bowling club entrance, but luckily for me they decided against it in the end. Now I know why I'm nice to everybody I meet.

I was also, in my Hay-Day, the Miss Nude 2000 winner at my local nudist beach carnival and got a white satin sash and a weekend stay at a swish nudist resort as the grand prize. Fuck was I drunk that day...

A few of us had camped at the northern end of the beach overnight, and so we were ab;e to begin drinking Bloody Mary's- minus the egg- almost as soon as the sun came up that morning. After the volley-ball net was lowered and the last caber tossed for the day the small contingent of media present even asked if I could redo the photo shoot at a later date because I was so obviously paralytic.

I didn't mind- but my Hubby thought it was hilarious that I had ever won in the first place and later asked me who I had fucked to win the competetion- for of course I must have- if anyone was going to pick me as the winner at least. Why else would I win? Me and my saggy little tits? As if. I tried to explain to him that the competetion wasn't judged on looks and body-bits alone- the guy who had taken out the men's competetion was balding and in his fifties. They must have seen Me for who I was; a naked drunken girl having an absolute ball (no pun intended) with all of my nude drunk mates.

I can't remember his name anymore- the fifty year old guy who also won- but my King held my schnooner glass of wine as I was presented with my prizes; and then helped me from the stage so I didn't have to re-suffer the ignominy of crash-tackling the sand again. I must have looked a pretty sight; my bare tits and wet thighs are covered in shell-grit and coarse sand after competing in the Life-Saver games and my straggly hair is as limp as the flaccid cocks all around me.

The mostly nudist crowd that had gathered for the presentation has begun to disperse by this time, but there are still the fully clothed Asian businessmen in their suits and no shoes who ask me to pose in photographs with them- like I am some sort of a celebrity all of a sudden. They insist on getting my pubic hair into the shots for some reason- not that this worries me. It's actually more of a concern that they are wearing suits at the beach in the middle of Summer.

I've got a photo of it, stashed, somewhere around here. My eyes look half glazed- over from all the booze that I've been drinking, and I'm smiling, even though it's pretty obvious that my yellow teeth are furry and need brushing. I know that I didn't feel as unattractive as I looked or else I couldn't have smiled at all. That's one of the reasons that I drink so much, probably, because it gives me the momentary delusion that I am attractive to others.

But it's also why I'm not surprised that I got a fan- even if it was only a weirdo named Gaz who lived in Tasmania...

My body, for all that it is now and how I often describe it, wasn't all that bad in the good old days. So that just proves my long-held theory that men don't have to look at a girl's face when they are summing up her general sex appeal. All Gaz took in from my full-frontal photo was my 'ace minge'- and it Was neatly trimmed and Did look quite pretty; but he didn't make any comments about anything else- which only compounds my belief that there is no way that he could have looked at my head before sending off his letter.

Case Closed.