Stepbogan My Love

My Bogan Stepbrother

"Kelly, this is Murray," said my mother.

There he stood. Six-foot-two of muscled, inked flesh, a pair of black Raybans, and the longest mullet I'd ever seen. His 'F*ck off, we're full' singlet was stretched tightly across his chest, showing off the solid, tradie-honed curvature of his pecs. It was like things went into slow motion as I watched him tip his head back and take a swig from his bottle of Carlton Draught, his hand gripping the nudie-lady stubbie holder firmly. I suddenly wished I was that nudie-lady in his hand.

He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and grinned at me. "G'Day, Kel," he said in a voice deeper than Richard Wilkins'. "How they hangin'?"

"High and perky," I quipped, rising to the challenge in his eyes. He nearly spat his beer.

"Murray's going to be your stepbrother, Kel," my mum announced proudly. "He'll be like the brother you always wanted!"

My heart sank. Stepbrother? I vaguely recalled some law about not rooting siblings. Not that he'd necessarily want to root me, I admonished myself quickly.

"You've always wanted a brother, have ya, Kel?" Murray's eyes twinkled. "I can sort you out with a couple of camel bites and Dutch ovens, no probs."

I blushed as I pictured him holding a sheet over my head, kicking myself for having these inappropriate thoughts. Not gonna happen, Kel.

Mum wandered off to fuss over handing out little boys and sauce. Murray leaned in conspiratorially. "You're a nice looking bird. Too bad about the step thing, hey, Kel? Maybe we should move to Tasmania where that sort of thing's acceptable?"

He laughed, winked, and went to get a devilled egg.

I sighed as I watched him walk away. Just my luck. My new stepbrother was heaven in double-pluggers.