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SEX AT SOUTHPORT 

SEX  AT SOUTHPORT  

So who is the amorous Tom ‘Lovemuscle’ Jones?  Is he the quietly spoken boy next door?  Is he someone’s rather fertile imagination based on his own experiences? 

Tom goes to many places and ends up at Southport.  His adventures get him into all sorts of strife, but also give him a deep and meaningful understanding of the opposite sex—and how they work.   

Isn’t this every man’s dream...to actually know how women think?  Tom seems to have mastered this mystery, hence his attraction to the many women he meets and greets. 

Tom is a lovable rogue, a rascal and some might say a real cad.  You be the judge and see if you understand women after reading this book.  

In Store Price: $AU23.95 
Online Price:   $AU22.95 

ISBN: 1-9211-1827-X
Format: A5 Paperback
Number of pages: 230
Genre: Fiction

Other Books by William Russell Andrew :

Hit by a Stroke  

Simplicity

 

 

Author: William Russell Andrew 
Publisher: Zeus Publications
Date Published: 2005
Language: English

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AUTHOR PROFILE    

 

The author William Russell Andrew was born in Melbourne in 1942, and there he graduated in Engineering and Commerce. He worked in engineering construction, and from 1979-86 was chief executive of the Ascom Group of companies doing major infrastructure projects in Australia, New Guinea and the Middle East. He was mayor of the City of Sandringham , and a Fellow of The Institution of Engineers Australia and The Australian Institute of Management .  

After a brilliantly successful career, he and wife Helen and three children went to the Gold Coast in Queensland . There he no longer took life seriously, and commenced writing in 2001.

Read a sample of the book:

1        

Tom Lovemuscle Jones is my name, women my weakness and it started in primary school.

At assembly on break-up day I gazed at the sky, the anthem was sung, and then the headmaster stepped to the rostrum and read out my name. The other students gasped for I had won a prize. My marbles dropped to the ground and I looked around the courtyard. I was being stared at. Me! A prize!

A clever girl in pigtails looked at me in a way no girl had ever done before. I wondered why, and at that tender age how indeed could any boy know the mind of a girl, when the headmaster suddenly appeared before me.

“Have you decided where to go, what school, young Tom, when you finish here,” he said. His stomach bulged over his pants, his hands tugged his braces, and he leant backwards to balance his weight.

“My dad is a draughtsman, sir, so I’ll go to the technical school, sir, and be like him, sir.”

“What! Why? Go the High School, Tom, where you can learn French and Latin.”

“I want to do practical things sir, rather than talk to the French or the Latins,” I replied conscious of the eyes of the girl on me. Had the headmaster had any brains, which he did not, all the pompous man had to do was point out that the girls went to High Schools where-as I had chosen a boys only technical school.

Those days I ran to school to use up my energy and I knew that the clever girl lived in a house on the main road. Her garden was huge, and her mother was forever in occupation armed with hedge clippers, and her father always raked the leaves from the trees in the late afternoon, and he watered at weekends, and her big brother played with bows and arrows after school.

That afternoon I heard a female voice call out my name. I stopped running, looked to where the voice seemed to come, but saw no-one. I was about to resume running when I heard the clever girl say in a loud whisper, “here I am, beside the garage.”

I zipped into the garden through an open gate and indeed she was beside the garage, in the space between it and the fence, barely one foot wide it was, with asbestos sheets on one side and rotten timber palings on the other. There I grasped one of the basic rules of life, one that few people ever learn: grab the moment to kiss and cuddle whenever and wherever you can, even though usually it is in cramped spaces where danger lurks. 

 2      

 

I was a gangly lad and practised athletics in our backyard. The sand pit I had once used to make sand castles became the landing pit for the long jump. It was in the corner near the back fence: I drew a line to show the spot from which I would jump, and then marked a track across the lawn and along the clothes line, and then to get a longer run-up cleared a path through the pumpkin patch. Father said nothing for he was a tolerant man.

After school there I would be, jump after jump, striving with all the earnestness of a world record holder, until one day I became conscious of a spectator. A girl was looking over the paling fence to the house at the back.

“Hello,” she said which to me did not need a reply.

“You do this every day,” she added.

“I do,” I agreed and why she should say such a silly thing amused me, as I already knew that.

“Why,” she said.

“Why not?”

“We should do the high jump,” she said and without waiting for my reply she climbed to the top of the fence and clambered down to face me. No wonder she suggested the high jump. What a streak she was, skinny and at least two inches taller than me.

“But we don’t have a bar to jump over.”

“Make one.”

“Who?”

“You.”

“Me!”

“Yes.”

It was the first time I had been commissioned to build something. Tall she might be, but I noticed she had rosebuds where I did not and never would

“How?”

She shrugged her shoulders as if to say I was the male and that carpentry was my department. I said we needed a long bar and two posts, or only one post if one of us could hold the bar steady without cheating. By good fortune we found an old curtain rail in the old backyard bungalow, and then I nailed a series of nails down the fence post.

“You can be the other post,” I said.

“No girls first.”

“That’s what I mean, that you hold the other end first.”

“No,” she said, “I want to jump first.”

I looked at her rosebuds and for reasons I did not fully understand, I graciously put the bar on a nail to make the bar three feet high and then held the other end.

She went first, and each day she would climb the back fence and we would rake the sand pit and rig up the bar, and I would let her jump first. We would strive to outdo each other until the inevitable happened: in fact it happened in the second week.

One of us fell awkwardly onto the rake, twisted an ankle and grazed a knee. It was me, and I stood carefully and then hobbled into the bungalow. She followed, and that was the day I sat on the bed and she showed me her rosebuds.

No-one, not her parents or mine, would wonder at the time we dedicated to our training for the high jump. They expressed no concern that each day whether it was raining or not, the girl clambered over the back fence. They did not seem to notice that we spent a lot of time in the bungalow. If it rained, it was into the bungalow. If the ground was still sodden after rain, it was the same, into the bungalow and out with the rosebuds. It also happened if it was too hot or too windy.

One day I raided my savings and bought a camera and took a photograph of the tall girl, and kept it.  

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