Big Denise’s crim boyfriend doesn’t like no from you fucking queens so he forces Big Denise who doesn’t do anal because she’s keeping penetrative sex until she gets a vagina in Casablanca or Cairo or wherever vaginas can be got in 1967, I don’t know, and ten days later, she can’t shit, and the pain makes Big Denise feel smaller and smaller and tight even though she is still as huge and as soft as usual and there is blood and creamy pus coming out of her bottom in strings and it is August and the winter winds rake Sydney Harbour with dry fingers so hard and sharp everything hurts. Big Denise gets desperate. She takes herself to the emergency room at St Vincent’s and at first, they are solicitous, yes, miss, doctor will see you now, miss. ‘Would you mind undressing for an examination,’ the doctor says, and when he sees that Big Denise has not yet been to Cairo or Casablanca or wherever girls went then, he says, ‘put your clothes back on. We don’t treat creatures like you.’ Big Denise says, ‘I’m bleeding; it hurts.’ The nurse says, ‘this is a hospital, we can’t help you.’ Big Denise says, ‘what am I supposed to do, go to a fucking vet.’ The doctor smiles winningly at Big Denise and says, ‘not such a bad idea. I could give you a referral asking him to put you down.’ ‘I can speak for myself,’ Big Denise says, ‘and you can stop ogling my tits. I know you want me, you fuckwit, live in hope.’

Human beings have their own theories, and it is always amusing to hear them talk about us. Such ignorance and self-assurance!