On the ABC’s Confession Booth podcast, Debrief Daily columnist Tracey Spicer opened up about sex, drugs and more, including the time she said f*ck on live TV. Today, we republish her transcript so you can see what was really said…
Last year, I confessed to being a “vain fool” in front of more than a million people. That’s how I started my TED Talk, in which I deconstructed the beauty myth by stripping away the layers of artifice. Tonight, I plan to perform a similar striptease: not of the seven veils, but the seven deadly sins.
Let us begin with the original sin luxuria, also known as lechery or lust.
This is a sin which harks back to 4000 BC or, in my case, the early 80s. They say lust is borne of an unmet need for God, but I’ve always found it to be an unmet need for cock. My first? Let’s call him ‘Harry’.
On top, he was all sharp and spiky; down below, all hard and shiny. You guessed it: he was my hairbrush. Oh, the nights of unbridled passion in my bedroom, walls plastered with Adam Ant, Rick Springfield, and Leif Garrett. Soon, however, the cold hard plastic was not enough.
I moved on to the warm soft flesh of Eamonn. Fair of skin and Irish of eye, Eamonn was the son of strict Catholics.
This, I confess, proved to be a stumbling block after the events of the 14th of September 1983. We were pashing in the back seat of my 1965 Toyota Corolla when I reached down to give, as the French say, pignolette, or, in the Australian vernacular, a hand job.
Soon, a sensation of warmth suffused my hand. “Success”, I thought: a job well done.
But then I looked into his lap to see a rather large wet spot: not so much a stain of semen, as a bath of blood. One of my fingernails had nicked his foreskin. I stared at my red right hand, silently screaming, "Out, damn spot".
Loudly screaming, Eamonn ran to his parents' house, where he uttered the immortal words, "Mum, I'm bleeding to death from my dick. Get me to a hospital".
I confess this was not the ideal start to my journey of sexual discovery. The next day, Mr and Mrs O'Sullivan paid a visit to Mr and Mrs Spicer.
"You daughter has damaged our son's penis," Mrs O'Sullivan said, hands shaking. "And he may never produce a child."
It seemed my sin was akin to douching with holy water, or defiling the Host of the Eucharist. However, this incident set me on a veritable road to Damascus (that is, if Damascus is a place where you can get lots of sex).
Over the next 15 years I succumbed to lust, in all of its forms, including, but not confined to:
* Sex with a man known as "banana dick" because I wanted to know if it really did reach the g-spot.
* An encounter with a chap called "donkey" which almost rent me asunder.
* Dalliances with two women, the first of whom said, as I was ‘down under’, "Er, you've never done this before, have you?"
I confess I am a failed lesbian.
But I've always been gluttonous for new experiences. I suspect it comes from the stultifying atmosphere, growing up in the Joh Bjelke-Petersen era.
Anyway, that's my excuse for, in no particular order:
* Sneaking into my best friend's pantry to steal her mum's Valium. (Hey, they didn't call it Mother's Little Helper for nothing… right?)