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This is a question Phobias

What gives you the heebie-jeebies?

It's a bit strong to call this a phobia, but for me it's the thought of biting into a dry flannel. I've no idea why I'd ever want to or even get the opportunity to do so, seeing as I don't own one, but it makes my teeth hurt to think about it. *ewww*

Tell us what innocent things make you go pale, wobbly and send shivers down your spine.

(, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 13:34)
Pages: Latest, 38, 37, 36, 35, 34, ... 1

This question is now closed.

The smell of baby oil gives me the shivers
And if you want the story why...

(It is a repost, but the QOTW ain't exactly thrilling my cotton socks off, and I don't have any other weird phobias. It is a long one, but it's worth it - as the black man said to the nun)

First off, I'd like to say that I have never told anyone about this. Even, now, in total anonymity, I'm cringing as I type this.

Let me set the scene - I was 18, had recently stopped hanging around with my closest friends (for reasons I can't quite remember now), in a job I hated, when I made a sudden spontaneous decision to take a week-long trip to Amsterdam. I booked the flights, managed to get the holidays short notice, packed up and flew off.

Let me say at this point that you should never go on holiday by yourself. It is probably the single worst holiday I've had, and I've been caravaning in Wales for fuck sake.

Anyway, after wandering around feeling lost and bored, and after getting far more stoned than was good for me, I stumbled across the Red Light District. I haven't seen a bigger collection of ropey-looking underdressed tramps since my last big night out in Glasgow. As a horny teenager, however, I was in a moral dilemma. Would I pay for sex? The inner dispute took about three seconds to come up with the answer : Hell yeah!

The only problem was, I couldn't decide which 'lucky lady' I was gonna have some fun with. Did I want, fat, thin, blonde, brunette, old or young? It's like you've been asked to choose which whiney-faced James-Blunt-carbon-copy singer-songwriter should be beaten to death with their own arm. Too much choice...

I decided to go with the one that caught my eye, that seemed to stand out. As I turned a corner, one of the girls in the windows performed a dance with her hands at her waist, firing them like pistols. This made me laugh, so I stepped up and asked how much.

"50 eauros dahrling" she said in a dodgy Italian accent.

"Lead on" said I.

We moved into the back room, a squalid, yet somehow clinical affair. The place stank of sweat and baby oil. I handed over the money to my hired whore, taking the time to look her over as she counted it.

She was tall, leggy, with long brunette hair, strong features, and a very full bra. She looked good, though I now put this down to a combination of bad lighting and the number of joints I had smoked throughout the day. I was wasted.

"You get undreassed, dahrling?" she said huskily. At this point, I did notice her voice was lower than what I was used to, but figured it must be the same in all Mediterranean women.

I promptly stripped, and joined her on the leather couch. She then proceeded to start sucking on my already hard member, without using a condom. I lay back, enjoying the sensation. It shamefully remains, to this day, one of the best blowjobs I have ever had.

After a while I decided I was ready for action. I tapped her on the head and motioned I was ready for sex. After helping me on with the condom (it's worth repeating that I was pretty fucking wasted) she proceeded to turn her back to me, took my cock in her hand, and helped guide it into what I thought was her 'lady-chamber' (or, for all you foul-mothed fuckers out there, her cunt).

I was really getting into the sex, thrusting away, and she was responding well, making all the right noises. I felt myself approaching the point of no return, so decided it would be a good time to change positions. I stopped, and indicated with what I'm sure was a ridiculous hand motion for her to turn over onto her front.

She looked at me uncertainly. "You suare?" she asked. "What about..." She nodded downwards, I looked down, and her hand seemed to be covering something over her crotch. At this point, I still hadn't cottoned on. I actually said "What about what?" in a genuinely confused tone.

'She' removed her hand, and at this point I probably don't have to tell you what was under there. If you haven't guessed it already, I'll spell it out for you. It was a cock and fucking balls, meat and two veg, George Bush and his advisers.

She/he looked at me with concerned eyes. "Is okay?"

A million questions swarmed through me at once. Does this make me gay? Can I ever look at myself in the mirror again? Is it too late to ask for my 50 euros back?

Then I realised I had 5 minutes left, and I didn't have enough money for another actual girl. So I shrugged and asked her/him to finish me off with a blowjob. I'll say it again, I was really fucking wasted.

As she/he was sucking away I glanced down and noticed her/his 'full' bra was actually full of toilet paper, and, to make matters worse, the long brunette hair was a long brunette wig. This wasn't even a transsexual, it was a guy in drag.

Somehow, I closed my eyes and climaxed. Afterwards, I couldn't put my clothes on fast enough, and as I was going through the door, all I could say was "That was...interesting"

I went to my hotel room, and took the longest shower I have ever had in my life. The smell of baby oil seemed to linger for days.

Upon returning home, whenever anyone asked me how my holiday was, I said "Fine" and quickly changed the subject. To this day, the smell of baby oil makes me quesy.

So now you know the reasons behind my baby oil phobia. Just don't tell anyone.

Please?




P.S I don't apologise for length, but she bloody well should have.


P.P.S. Is there an actual scientific name for the fear of baby oil? If not, any suggestions?
(, Sun 13 Apr 2008, 23:58, 6 replies)
I only really have one phobia
and the only way I can think of making it interesting is to tie it in with my own QOTW suggestion.
It is a true story though.

A few years back I met my estranged father, it turns out he was a fat, sleazy waste of space, who wasn't worth knowing anyway. But, through him I got to meet my three long-lost half sisters.

I'd awoken one day to the man who had spaffed up my mum 27 years ago calling my mobile and telling me to meet him in a pub that was local to me.
Having only met the guy a few times, and rapidly going off him due to his constant sleazy remarks about girls half his age, boasting about not paying his child support and abandoning his alcoholic second wife, I was reluctant to go to say the least.
But go I did, and I took my little girl along too, as it was a family pub, and she seemed to like him, but I have a feeling that was purely because he would buy her toys, and her other grandad passed away before she was even so much as a twinkle in her mother's eye.

It was the middle of June, and a lovely sunny day, I walked into the beer garden, holding my little girl by the hand, and we approached his table. There I saw that he was sitting with three dark haired, pretty young women, who I instantly recognised as my long lost half sisters. It would be an understatement to say that I was shocked, I was totally over the moon. You have no idea how ecstatic you'll feel in that kind of situation, or the instant bond that forms when it happens, unless you go through it yourself.
We introduced ourselves, there was D (15) who was the eldest, M (13) and C (10), and they all absolutely loved my daughter from the moment they saw her. C even said that she'd always wanted a younger sister, and she was going to adore my little un as if she were her own.

Their confidence was staggering, they all talked with so much gusto and self-assurance it actually intimidated me a little.
Time passed and I became more shy and quiet as they all continued to talk over each other, bicker, and give far too much information far too quickly, just as any normal group of teenage girls would do.
It was lunch time, so 'sleazy little man who knocked my mum up and didn't pay a penny for us, or his three daughters', suggests we order food in the pub, which we did, and I distinctly remember ordering a jacket potato with cheese.
More time passed, and I sat quietly in the sunshine, sipping my pint and trying to digest as much of the 'she said, they did, omg can you believe what my teacher did?!' that my semi-siblings were spouting at me like crazed zealots. Then lunch arrived, and I was faced with my achilles heel, my one nemesis, the only thing on Earth capable of rendering me a fearful wreck.

They had put beans on my potato.

Beans, for me, are more than a phobia, they are the root source of all that is wrong with the world. I can't stand the smell, the shape or the colour, don't even think about getting them anywhere near my mouth, I'll vomit all over you before you even get close.

But this is the first time I've ever met my three massively over-confident half sisters, I was scared, surely I couldn't show weakness in front of them? I can't send them back, after all, everybody loves beans, don't they? I'd have looked silly.
So, faced with this conundrum, and the three teenage harpies of doom, I did what any real man would. I faced my fear. I was going to have to eat the beans.

I can still feel them in my throat as I write this, they were truly horrible, the smell filled my nostrils and I could even feel their slimy, bean-y texture flowing over my tongue, oozing down to my stomach, and my teeth were coated in their tomato sauce-beany juices.
I had to hold my breath and hold back the bile rising in my chest with every single bite. But I stayed calm, I held my nerve, I was smiling and nodding nonchalantly as i listened to my sisters' incessant warblings, they had no idea how easy it would've been for me to have given up and just spew all over their faces. But I persevered, until every last mouthful was gone.
I was filled with an enormous amount of pride at my achievement, and silently vowed to never do it again. They hadn't even noticed anything different about me, and in my own mind I was champion of the world for eating that lunch.

Anyways, a few months later, 'sleazy little greaseball who knocked up my mum' disappeared again, but I stayed in touch with my sisters. M, the middle child and definitely the most outspoken and confident, emailed me one day to tell me that, 'I can't believe you ate all those beans that first time we met, I have this totally irrational fear of them.'

Arse.
(, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:31, 15 replies)
"Tell us what innocent things make you go pale, wobbly and send shivers down your spine"
I'd be interested to ask Gary Glitter that same question....
(, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 13:40, 2 replies)
And another one...
Some people here seem to have a major spider problem. They're not my biggie (see below) but I can't claim to be exactly spider-neutral. There's a story behind this one..

Wiggly 'back in time lines'

I'm 7. It's high summer and I'm on my Auntie's farm, playing with my cousins. The sun is hot, the barn is cool. We are climbing the big stacks plastic sacks of animal feed pellet that reach nearly to the rafters. A perfect game, an idyllic scene.

Chasing me, giggling, to the top of this landscape of smooth plastic steps, my cousins were astonished to find I had seemingly vanished on reaching the summit. My lithe 7 year old frame had posted itself down a 2 foot square gap in the centre of the pile, a consequence of the way pallets were stacked by fork-lift, and I'd slid about 20 feet to the bottom of the shaft.

I was ok. Arms and bare legs scratched because of my little shorts and t-shirt combo, by the gap was so tight that my descent, though surprising, was not so rapid. After much laughter and reassurance, the older girls ran to get Uncle Gerard and a length of rope.

Alone in the tight dim space, my scratches are becoming increasingly tickly. Then my eyes adjust. I'm coated with house spiders. You saw that coming, didn't you?

They were in my long thick Irish curls. They were in my t-shirt. They were creeping up my shorts. Bare-foot I was stood in an sea of the bastards that had been pushed down by my fall. They were still absailing down into by upturned face, my ears, my nostrils, sticking to my tears. I kept my moth clamped shut. You know that dry crackling sound when you rip spiders web? Every movement I made.

I was alone and unable to move down there for the longest 10 minutes of my life. I don't remember my rescue, I must have blocked it out. There are photos of me being hosed down by my Auntie to remove them. None of my family laughs when the incident is recalled. It wasn't funny. Everyone was sicked with horror by me, haunted, wide-eyed and shaking, as adults, equally terrified of the things, tried to fight their fear of my thousand creeping, sticking passengers. No-one ran to hug the spider-child.

Apparently I did not open my mouth, not even to eat or drink, for almost two days. I did not speak for a week, catatonic, but screamed in my sleep. no-one played in the barn again, not even the boys.

I got over it, and maintain just a healthy mistrust of spiders. I don't like the hunch of their legs. But if I get a web stuck over my face....
(, Fri 11 Apr 2008, 12:26, 7 replies)
THIS IS A FRONT! BEWARE!!
THE B3TA OVERLORDS ARE TRYING TO FIND OUR WEAKNESSES! DO NOT TELL THEM YOUR WEAKNESSES!!

*fashions hat from tinfoil*
(, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 14:12, 11 replies)
Gather round for story time, boys and girls
So one night I decide to head out to the local club for a little dance and a bit of booze. Seeing as it was a chilly Saturday in November, I decide to try out a new hat I'd gotten recently. It was cozy, covering most of my head, although it chafed the sides pretty badly, very tight fit.

When I got to the club, they had a terrible selection of drinks; regardless, I picked my preference and got a bottle of Carlsberg. Went to mingle on the dance floor when one of the fellow dancing blokes knocked the bottle clean out of my hand, sent it sloshing all over the floor. He apologised to me and offered to get me a replacement drink. I accepted and instead got a pint of Carling.

Barely had I taken a couple of sips from my fresh glass when some other pisshead bumped into me, causing me to wear about eight fluid ounces of lager down my front. Rush to the loo, plenty of paper towels to soak it up; by now, my hat was really bothering me so I took it off and splashed some water on the irritation, then went back out. Again, the perpetrator is guilt-ridden and doles out some cash to get me another beverage. I decide to play it safe and got a can, rather than an easily spilt/broken glass or bottle. This time I chose Heineken, my options slowly dwindling.

I got about halfway through this time, starting to feel a little satisfied with my accomplishment. Complacently, I placed it down on the table and went to have a little dance and spread the new boozy scent of my clothes amongst the other patrons. On my way back, I see one of the bar staff collect my drink, pour the contents into the sink and toss the empty cylinder of aluminium into the bin. I mention that I hadn't finished refreshing myself with it, and once more, I get plenty of sorries and he provides me with a half of Stella, their last option.

This time, I managed to keep hold of it until the glass was empty.
So once my drink was gone, I decided I should go home and get out of my damp gear. I checked the tenderness caused by my headgear, applied some moisturising cream on it, and went to bed.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the story of how I got my ear-rash-an'-all four-beers
(, Sun 13 Apr 2008, 0:24, 8 replies)
Heh.
This isn't exactly a phobia, just a button to press.

There's a certain recent member than can be made to go spastic if you use one certain word.

PAEDOPHILE!!

I've had a couple of drunken Sunday afternoons drinking with her when this subject has come up.

Check replies for explanation.

If she bites that is...

Cheers
(, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 14:44, 19 replies)
you know how if you have a phobia
one way of dealing with it is to expose yourself to it as much as possible?

Don't do this if you're scared of old women.
(, Sun 13 Apr 2008, 22:46, 1 reply)
Fingers + Face = Fear, Paranoia and Freak-out
Anyone lightly poking my face so that they are barely touching it send me into a panic fit, the lighter they do it, the worse it is. I cant cope with it, it makes me unable to breathe and I feel like I'm gonna pass out. I stopped telling people when I realised that people are bastards, and they will do it to see the subsequent freakout and me batting at my face like a spakker angry with his own nose.
I thought i was alone in this strange condition, but when i went to Uni I found someone else with this weird streak in them. As a result we have spent many a strange afternoon sitting in front of one another lightly touching each others face at the same time to see who would 'break' first.
It truly is a game with no winners, just two very sad, demented looking losers....
(, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 14:02, 7 replies)
Nervous Sphincter.
The last few pages have made quite interesting reading for someone who for whatever the reason briefly studied phobic responses. You'll be relieved to hear that you lot are mostly normal, but I won't bore you with the psychology.

I too have a phobia. Of sorts. Unfortunately the general definition of a phobia is that it's a fear that you are consciously (or over-consciously) aware of, and mine doesn't fall into that category. It seems that my body has, quite independently, developed a phobia that my thinking mind was in blissful ignorance of until relatively recently.

So, I've just returned from a long journey across the wilds of Central Asia. As is sensible when voyaging in countries whose sanitary provisions haven't undergone any significant updates since the days of Genghis Khan, I brought decent quantities of Immodium, assuming I wouldn't make it to Kazakhstan without contracting some mild bacterial horror. I had my wet wipes. I was ready. We left the airport behind, and set out across the desert. And I waited.

And waited. And waited.

Three days, and I felt fine. I went to the "toilet" (squalid hole in the ground complete with mighty frozen shit-stalactite) several times a day, and took my time, but not even the vague pre-faecal tremors did I feel. Not to worry - it's not been that long. Get some orange juice down yer.

Two more days, and nothing. Feeling a bit groggy and off my food, but alone of all our group have managed not to contract the galloping shits from some dubious Mongolian mutton stew. They're back and forth to the khazi like it's a relay race; I remain beatifically bunged up. I become the genial dispenser of goodwill in the form of industrial shite-stopper.

One more day, and we come to another hostel. I retreat to the bathroom, fully stocked up with hot flannels and reading materials, hoping that the familiar posture and rather less open-plan surroundings will do the trick.

Forty minutes, and nothing. I feel like I'm about to have a stroke; there's a violent pain in my head, and I've torn a couple of intercostal muscles. I feel weak as a jellyfish, and I've achieved nothing. What on earth is going on? I don't feel physically ill, beyond what you'd expect of someone who hasn't crapped for over a week. I can't get that horrible Sennakot advert where women pour increasing amounts of food into their overflowing handbags out of my head. I just can't think what is wrong.

Then I remember.

Before this, I haven't been away on holiday for a little under two years. I've had the odd weekend here and there at friends' houses, but nothing beyond that. Which means that I haven't been away from private bathroom facilities for more than a couple of days at a time since a little happening that is referred to only as The Incident (TM). The Incident occured under conditions almost entirely self-wrought, which detracts not a wit from its severity, nor the deeply scarring effect it has evidently had upon my subconscious.

It was a beautiful sunny day, and I was hungover to fuck. My best friend and I were driving to visit my mother in St. Ives in Cornwall. The night before, in an attempt to relive the glorious summers of our late teenagehood, we'd gone to Newquay (now a scummy stain of its former self, thanks to Easyjet doing flights from Stansted and unleashing a plague of fake-tanned high-heeled henpigs) and got utterly slaughtered somewhere awful, then slept in the back of the car. Class to the bone, etc. I'd woken up, feeling 'surprisingly OK' in that way that surely presages the onset of Satan's Vengeance on your internal organs in a few short hours. Pre tea and toast, I was fine. After tea and toast, I was fit only for fitful groaning and being propped up in the front seat for a (gently, please) journey down the road to St Ives.

Things did not go well. For a start, it was a swelterer of a day. And we'd forgotten to bring any water. And I was in dire need of water, or coke, or anything vaguely liquid in character. I felt bad. My head hurt. My arms hurt. I felt sick, and weary, and above all I felt that vague, bleak sense of hangover-guilt that causes you to recall everythign that happened the previous night (even if nothing significant) with a queasy, squirmy sense of shame. I wasn't exactly on top form.

But I knew what could sort me out, and its name was Irn-Bru. As much as I hate the toxic-orange teeth-melting stuff in the normal course of things, it is - and I'll back it over any other substance you care to name - the best hangover cure ever. Ever. It's not permanent, but by God, it's fast. It's got me out from some very dark places before, and I had faith that it wouldn't let me down in this, my hour of need.

We passed a service station. I asked my friend to stop, intending to pop (or rather trudge heavily) into the shop to get some of the Scots magic potion, and to use the facilities - for lo, the beershits were sending forth their unmistakable harbingers. So in I went, looking like Helena Bonham Carter after a night on the meths. The shopkeeper, seeing my predicament, waved me in the direction of the toilet within the shop itself, which was a large disabled facility (no cubicle.)

I went in. There was a large mirror over the sink, in which I could see myself. I looked bad. I slumped, weary of life, on the throne. Lubricated by an excess of 12-hour-old bad Asti, things began to happen. But I'd forgotten that I'd had rather a large pasty the night before, and then another one at about 4am. This, it turns out, was putting the doozie on my bowels.

However, as already noted in some detail, I wasn't in any sort of condition to push. A mere turn of the head was enough to set throbs of agony through my suffering soul; a concentrated strain would have been violently painful. So I did what anyone else* would have done. I grabbed hold of the cripple-rail with both hands, and bodily heaved against it, letting my upper arms take the strain. And it worked, sort of. Movement was noted. Still holding onto the rail, I steeled myself for the final push.

At which point, the door flies open, and an elderly man is greeted with the sight of my horrified arse, suspended quivering over the bowl, turtle’s head in plain view. He’s in shock. He stares at me. I stare back. He tries to shut the door, but in his panic he flings it so hard that it bangs even further open, exposing me in all my glory to the ENTIRE shop, queueing customers, browsing patrons, attendants and all.

I don’t remember the next few seconds. I may have let out a pathetic whimper of distress. My poo having beaten an immediate, terrified retreat, I screamed at him to shut the door, then scraped whatever shattered vestiges of dignity remained to me together and attempted to walk calmly out, out of the shop, across the forecourt and back into the car. I'm not sure whether the full-on stares or the faintly disgusted smiles of sympathy from the other customers were worse.

According to my friend, all I managed to say, white-faced and trembling, was “We are leaving. We are leaving now.” She only got the story out of me much, much later.

And ever since then, patient readers, I’ve developed a nervous sphincter. I simply can’t go in a public toilet, no matter how grave the need. Something, deep in my subconscious, recalls the pain and shame and shock of that moment and involuntarily bottles me up until I can get back to my own toilet – secluded, private, and most importantly, double-locked. I knew I’d tell the story of The Incident on b3ta one day – I’ve missed one too many opportunities, and I guess it just had to come out sometime.

Apologies for…well, everything, really.
(, Fri 11 Apr 2008, 12:55, 4 replies)
Gay ghosts
give each other the willies.

sorry.
(, Fri 11 Apr 2008, 7:49, 4 replies)
People
Not you lovely lot, but the endless stream of unhinged tag-nuts clinging to the wiry hairs around the arse of society that we have to contend with these days.

It's probably an incredibly small minority that make everybody elses lives a misery, and I can't be arsed to wade through news websites to find links to yet another under 20 year old scrote or scrote-ess who thinks them and their gang of cock mates can do what they want, and maybe it's that type of shite-for-brains who you remember over and above the others, but the sheer, total and utter dreadfulness of the turds that make up "society" today really make me glad I haven't had any kids who are going to have to put up with them when I go.

If I die I want to go old, happy reasonably contented and not because a gang of tanked up 15 year olds take a dislike to my face/clothes/bag/accent or whatever other excuse they choose to use to decide to kick the living daylights out of me simply because they are bored and can't find a car to steal/bus to throw bricks at/public space to act like cunts in.

I know it's probably unfair to tar them all with the same brush but if I see a group of more than one young gent in sports gear coming my way I will cross the road rather than risk some random abuse that would never happen if they locked these fuckers up as soon as they realise what a bunch of utter twats they are.

Edit: I know I said I couldn't be arsed to look for links but as an example of the kind of turds Im talking about

news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/lancashire/7316601.stm

Can anybody think of one good reason why these 2 cocksuckers are actually still alive?
(, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 19:30, 5 replies)
In which Jen the Toilet Queen's parents overcame their phobia of War.
***WARNING***

MAY NOT BE ON TOPIC

MAY ALSO CONTAIN FICTION AND RUDENESS


Due to popular request I've dug out the story of how Jen the Toilet Queen's (remember that? That wasn't pr0n, that was M&S pr0n!)parents got it together at the beginning of WW2.

His mother - Sadie had a fear of being alone at times of great stress. She relieved this by deflowering young boys....





Patrick’s fifteenth birthday was on the 1st of September 1939, two days later war broke out and he was relieved of his virginity by a working girl called Sadie.

She was doing him a favour - no one wanted to die a virgin and she was sure Hitler himself was going to come knocking and kill them all.

Sadie walked through the back door and found Patrick sitting naked in a small tin bath in the kitchen.

“Oh don’t mind me! I’ve seen it all before. I’ll shut my eyes so you can get out and keep decent.”

“Thank you.” Patrick waited until Sadie closed her eyes and then he stood up, looked around and sighed, “Um, you’re sitting on my towel.”

Her large blue eyes opened and she spoke to his hands which were attempting to conceal his embarrassment unsuccessfully, “My, you have grown… up. It only seems like yesterday you were still a little boy.”

He didn’t look fifteen.

In Patrick’s opinion Sadie looked like a Saturday morning in bed; comfortable, warm, dreamy, but unmade. The hem on her dress was always coming unstitched or the lining came away as she took off her coat or she couldn’t remove her heavily darned cardigan because it forced the tiny buttons on her blouse to pop and skitter to the floor.

Patrick was still standing cold and naked in the kitchen, “Erm, Sadie, my towel?”

“Hmm, yes. Here you are Patrick. Shall I close my eyes again? Not really much point is there? I’ll put the kettle on shall I? Nice cup of tea. Or maybe we should have something stronger – seeings what’s happened.”


Patrick stepped out of the tin bath and tugged on the towel that was still firmly wedged between Sadie’s shapely backside and the hard wooden kitchen chair.

“Alright! Alright! You only needed to ask you know.” Finally Sadie lifted herself and let him get to the thin and threadbare cloth masquerading as a white bath towel. “I think I’d better go and get dressed while you’re making a cup of tea Sadie.”

She gave a high-pitched giggle,leaned her elbows on the sink behind her, pulled back her shoulders and shook out her long red hair nervously.

She knows I’m looking at her tits. Knockers. Stop it!
“No, no. I’m not panicking, but I am getting cold, so if you will excuse me for a moment…”


“Patrick, Patrick, have you come over all funny? Are you scared stiff too? What do you think will happen now? Will it be quick and over in a flash? Or will it go on for ages?”

“Will what be quick?” Patrick asked warily.

“The war”

“Ah. Yes. Well, I, um. I don’t know.”

They both stood silently. “Well, I’d better get dressed.” He took a stride towards dignity but was stopped again by Sadie who now threw herself against his bare and hairless chest and began to sob. Patrick stood still, Sadie’s Marcel Waved head barely came to his shoulders. He patted Sadie’s narrow back as if she were a strange overfriendly dog which he needed to placate while his other hand was still clinging to his modesty.

“Oh Patrick, you’re so calm and sensible.” Sadie’s voice was only a little muffled by his almost dry chest. She was whimpering and her chest was heaving, her blouse still gaping with each intake of air. Her hot breath upon his left nipple was not going unnoticed.

Patrick tried to focus on Sadie’s less appealing features like her small, pointed and pronounced teeth, but that made him think about her mouth rimmed with scarlet lipstick. He tried to picture her overlong toenails which scratched the ground as she tottered in her high heeled sandals but that made him imagine her slim ankles, shapely calves, white rounded thighs rising up to her perfectly formed – his breathing was becoming ragged. The towel was now pointless.

“Patrick! You naughty boy!” said Sadie slowly, “Well I never! And all for me…What are we going to do now?” She walked her pink shell fingernails up his chest.

“Sadie, I’m…I do apologise. I must -”

“Come on,” she whispered huskily just like Patrick had seen at the movies, the same movies she had seen, “Into the front parlour. Room doesn’t get used that much, curtains are closed and I’ve heard the settee is quite comfy.”

“But…Sadie”

SHUT UP!! This is a chance to get your leg over you stupid bugger! She might be a few years older than you and she’s done the rounds a bit, well more than a bit, but she’s female and she’s got great knockers. If you're lucky she might even let us have a look at them. So shut up and let her take you.

Sadie took Patrick’s hand and gently led him into the darkened room. His heart was pounding so much he couldn’t hear all the wirelesses in his street tuned to the Home Service, the 9pm bulletin, all talking war with one solemn voice.

Bloody hell. Bloody hell. This is it. She’s going to let me…I’m going to…Bloody hell. Stay calm. Stay calm.

The parlour was cool and quiet, dark heavy Victorian furniture set like a stage waiting for its next scene to be played out in front of the framed audience of long dead relatives reproduced in faded sepia tones.

Sadie’s only concern was with her living audience of one for whom she slowly lifted her pale blue cotton skirt, slipped her cream cami-knickers down over her rounded hips and allowed them to slide to the floor where she elegantly stepped out of them and then threw them over Great Uncle Charlie who remained unperturbed in his mahogany frame.

She turned away from him, bent to remove her strappy sandals and slipped her small feet onto the worn carpet. She quietly laid herself upon the narrow ageing couch, lifting her skirt again and allowing her spectator his first sight of a woman. Her white thighs were luminous against the dull brown swirls that had once been flowers on the upholstery, but Patrick’s eyes could not move from her coppery pubic hair. He stood, towel still in hand.

I’m not quite sure what to do now. I mean, I know what to do, but what does she expect?

“Um, can I um, kiss you?”

Sadie giggled, “Not many want to kiss. I usually charge extra for that you know.”

Patrick frowned.

“Don’t worry Patrick love. This one’s on the house. This is for the war effort.” She gently pulled him on top of her then kissed his lips and whispered, “We need to make an effort to make sure you don’t die a virgin… Don’t look at me like that; I know I’m your first. Drop that bloody old towel!”

He did as he was told. His knees were between hers and his hands held fast onto the couch.

Bloody hell. Oh God.

“You know where to put it, don’t you love?” Sadie was looking at the ceiling.

“Yes, of course. But I … I don’t want to hurt you.”

Sadie’s mouth puckered a little, she let go of her skirt and dropped her hand, but not her eyes, to guide him. Gently she circled his throbbing cock with her small pale hands, he shivered. Then she stopped, brought her hand up to her mouth, sucked on her fingers, and slid her hand back down. Patrick watched as she closed her eyes and slipped her wet fingers into the moist cleft that was bordered by the coppery curls. Sadie took his cock again and now smeared her own juices along the shaft as she pumped. Patrick began to see stars as his groin felt as if it would explode. She slowly rubbed the now glistening and pulsating head of his hard cock against her drenched pussy. Just as Patrick began to lose all sense of reality he plunged into her wet, hot hole and his throbbing member gushed forth with foamy spunk. She did not laugh, smirk, wince or yelp as Patrick thought she might, Sadie was silent.

He kept his eyes trained on the arm of the couch, another grubby patch where the flower pattern had become a brown pattern with darker bits.

Great Uncle Charlie looked on impassively; he was responsible for the stain on the couch; half a pint of stout spilled as he experienced his final heart attack brought on by the discovery of his only niece’s expecting another in the long family line of bastards.

There had been a couple of gentle creaks from the couch and Patrick’s first attempt was over quickly.

He sat back on his towel, “Was that alright?”

“Yes. It was fine.” She drew her knees together and pulled her skirt over them.

Patrick looked down at himself. He grinned.

I’ve done it! I’ve bloody done it! That was…bloody hell.

He looked back at Sadie, “Can I kiss you again?”

Sadie smiled. He tried to kiss her gently with tenderness but he found his hand pushing back her skirt to find that damp moist heaven. “Can I? Again?” She checked her brown wristwatch and nodded. He climbed back into position; she lifted her skirt and dropped her knees out again.

This time he trailed his finger down from the bunched up skirt to the triangle of fox-fur until he found the origin of the world. It was warm, warmer than he had expected, but he did not have time to run his fingers and his tongue over this unexplored land as he wanted because the insistent growing, throbbing hard cock wanted to ram itself into her until she screamed with ecstasy.

Concentrate this time, must concentrate. Trains, the Northern line.


On his second attempt Patrick made it all the way from Morden to the Embankment with changes at Stockwell and Victoria Station. He was keen to try a third attempt, this time going around all of the Circle line but by then she was developing fabric burns on her delicate white rump and needed to return to her paying duties.


Sadie stood up and shook her waved hair out a little as if it were wet, “They’ll all be out and about now. Seeings it’s the war and everything. I ‘spect it’ll be a busy night like, could be busy as Christmas or New Year. Well, that’s you sorted out, sorted out good and proper! Anytime you fancy another go….”

His explorations were over.

Sadie picked up her knickers and began to fold them, “If I’m free, like. But don’t go telling your mum – she might tell me off!” She giggled, put her high-heeled sandals back on and walked into the kitchen.

Patrick followed obediently, towel back in place around his waist, “Thank you Sadie, thank you very much. You’ve been extremely generous to me.”

Is that right? Should I be thanking her? Should I tell her I love her? Should be in love with her now, or her with me? Is that why she did it?


“Oh do give over love! Any of the girls round here would have dropped their knickers if you’d looked their way or followed them down a dark alley. I can think of quite a few who’d love to meet you and your crown jewels in a dark alley! With your posh ways, you’re a proper gentleman you are.” She looked away from Patrick, outside to the darkened sky where the stars had begun to come out.

Sadie raised her eyebrows and returned her concentration to the underwear she held in her small hand, “Sometimes Patrick,” she looked back up at him and smiled a little, “It’s nice to be in charge…Oh look at that clock, it’s almost chucking out time over at the King’s Head, I’ve some regulars there, better get going. Give my love to your mum – tell her I popped round to check on you.”

Sadie scooped up her handbag and shoved in her folded knickers, she caught Patrick’s eye, “Saves time. And washing.”
(, Tue 15 Apr 2008, 12:44, 21 replies)
'' givs m th hbi-jbis
Th lttr ''.

I sriously cannot bar th lttr ''.

It maks m go all swaty and I fl quit qur.

No-on blivs m, but it's tru.

Fortunatly I had alrady mad my b3ta usrnam bfor I bcam afflictd.

Unfortunatly my Fathr's nam is Drk, my Mothr's nam is iln and my Brothr's nam is Stv.
(, Fri 11 Apr 2008, 11:55, 7 replies)
bin juice
What is it? Where does it come from? What does it want!?
(, Fri 11 Apr 2008, 11:16, 5 replies)
Just because they're fluffeh doesn't mean they're cute.
They're filthy and disturbing too... this is just another of the reasons I fear them:

***************

.. As Tobermory gently edged his fuzzy member deeper in between Orinoco's velvety buttocks he felt the clenched pucker of the young womble's anus dialate and grant him entry. With a deep grunt he thrust home, causing the usually sleepy young one to jump.

The kindly Womble that he was, he then reached around and grasped the base of Orinoco's twitching cock as he started to thrust. "Uncle Bulgaria will want you later" he rasped into his ear... "I'm going to fill you up so you're nice and slippery for him"

The sound of the other Wombles singing the Wombling Song drifted though the turf into the burrow. Unknown to them they changed rhythm; Tobermory thrusting home in time to the verse.

Orinoco's womblehood started to twitch, and, sensing his imminent climax and in anticipation of the rapid clenching of his anus, Tobermoray grabbed him by his ears and started to hammer his young behind for all he was worth...

The trained observer would notice a vague movement in the shadows of the corner of the room as Madame Chaulet watched Tobermory's exposed rear end while menacingly rubbing butter into the shaft of her rolling pin....

*************

Filthy little bastards, they shouldn't be allowed anywhere near public places... let alone encouraged to loiter in the bushes...
(, Tue 15 Apr 2008, 13:24, 15 replies)
Mine is spiders, which is boring...
... but my friend Martin has a weird one.

When I was a wee young nipper of 15 I was sitting on a bench outside the Geography department of my school, eating my sandwiches. The quintessential student, I was - munching on packed lunch whilst skipping a detention (probably).

As it happened I was a slob and crumbs from my sandwiches were raining upon my legs, one of which was crossed over the other in the intellectual pose of the deep thinker or the poof. Suddenly I heard a voice in front of me:
"Matt..."
It was Martin, with ice-cold fear wrapped around his words; a boa constrictor suffocating his voice.
"... your leg," he mumbled quietly, still petrified.
The same fear stopped my heart - Martin, too, was scared of spiders and I was sure if I looked down I'd see an eight-legged monstrosity, fangs bared, ready to plunge into my calf. I steeled myself, and looked down.
There was fuck-all. Grey school trouser with specklings of white crumbs collected in the creases.
I looked back up. "What?"
"I can't look at it, Matt, it really freaks me out," he said, eyes shut.
"What the fuck are you on about, you crazy cunt?" I said (probably in those exact words but I can't guarantee that).
"Crumbs in a line," he replied, completely serious. "I do NOT like it."

I mean, what in the actual fuck? Not just a fear of crumbs, but crumbs in a line?! It's not like they're in military formations or lined up with a malevolent intent, they're just caught in the crease of my trousers.

Fucking twat.
(, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 14:11, 2 replies)
I am utterly terrified of my own arse.
It's supernatural. It manages to do things that are not physically possible.

After a really good curry, too much coffee, too much of anything in fact, It manages to spraypaint the underside of the SEAT. HOW??

Seriously.. that feat requires a projectile trajectory of approx 120° Away from the direction shit SHOULD be travelling.

Every now and then I hear it rumbling, and I try to back away from it, but that bastard's attached. No matter how fast I run I can't get away from it.

I only leaned recently that running away from it was futile... but I sometimes forget while I'm drunk. .. sometimes when I wake up there are nasty patterns on the walls and floors. I can only assume that during the night and in blind drunken panic - my arse attacks while I'm at full terrified sprint.
(, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 13:53, 4 replies)
Foodie Phobias
One of my closest friends has a phobia about fried eggs. Now, any reasonable pub you go to is guaranteed to have a menu showing the offending foodstuff as part of an all day breakfast offering. All you have to do is hold the menu up, point to the egg and she starts wretching. It's the easiest and most fun way of winning any arguement I've ever found.

Going one better I know a guy who once had an horrendous food poisoning incident involving some bad salmon so now, and this is no exaggeration, all you have to do is say the word 'salmon' and he vomits! Obviously we treat this sensitively, not wanting to upset or injure the poor man. Do we bollocks. We've got our own barfcannon!

"Ready. Aim. Salmon. Fire!" It is, without a doubt, the most fun I've ever had!

I'm going to hell aren't I?
(, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 13:53, 3 replies)
Seagulls.
Seagulls are fucking filthy smelly dirty evil shrieking greedy scavenging creepy demonic bastard pieces of bastard shit.

WHY WON'T YOU ALL STOP SQUEAKING AT ME AND FLAPPING AT ME LIKE THAT! I DON'T HAVE ANY FOOD FOR YOU! I DON'T HAVE ANY FOOD FOR YOU!

*cries*
(, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 13:51, 2 replies)
I have spent years trying to deal with my fear of chiahuahuas
... So, I have found a way to involve them in my life in a situation that I'm comfortable with.

Chihuahua Science.

1. I experimented to see if my Chihuahua floats, I found that it does.
While reading up on the subject of density, It came to my attention that the density of fluids is inversely proportional to the temperature of the liquid.
Punt (the dog's name) was only able to keep his head above the cold water, and quite frankly seemed to struggle a bit.
I contended that using boiling water (less dense you see) will make it harder for him to swim.
The experiment failed.

2. Again I'd been in the Science books doing some "book-learnin'"
I discovered that things get warm if you agitate their molecules: the very principle behind a microwave oven.
On a larger scale, The energy held in a moving object - when colliding with a target - Creates heat within the target itself.
My Chihuahua was cold. How many stones would I have to throw at it to warm it up?
The experiment failed.
Conclusion: use smaller rocks.

3. Having Experimented with the buoyancy of my Chihuahua in liquids hot and cold, and having tried to warm it up by bombarding it with object .... I decided to resort to modern technology to warm the poor thing up again.
The experiment failed.
It took ages to clean the microwave.

4. Frustration during one laboratory session lead to me kicking a Chihuahua about 13 meters, I just tried to kick a poodle to see if the "four times the weight = quarter the distance" theory.
The experiment was a partial success.
I was surprised to find that I achieved 6 meters, and broke my toe.
I concluded that I had used more force with the poodle.

5. Following the suggestions of a fellow animal lover, I used chilli sauce on a Chihuahua's nether-regions to speed it up, and thus make it more interesting. (I used to use Coleman's mustard)
However... The effect was quite startling... After a 30 minute rampage (I had to stand on a table) the dog suddenly fell asleep.
I was unable to wake him.
The experiment was a short-term success., but the "dog" remained broken.

6. I took:
2 meter length of 130mm diameter steel pipe.
One large end-cap
A small amount of gunpowder
A fuse
One Chihuahua (approx 130mm diameter with legs tucked in)

After assembling the apparatus, I lit the fuse.
The experiment was inconclusive: test subject could not be located.

**************

I feel that my fear has been conquered, but now I'm currently cooking 6 Chihuahuas to feed my family.

It's perfectly humane: they all died naturally in a series of experiments... But I have a culinary question.

I've seen people remove the skins from peppers by flaming them a little with a small blow-torch. Can I use the same technique on the Chihuahuas if I use a bigger blowtorch?
(, Wed 16 Apr 2008, 14:40, 16 replies)
I'm scared there won't be any kitten pictures this week


aaah.
(, Tue 15 Apr 2008, 2:22, 3 replies)
I have an irrational fear
but it's just a cheap knock-off of a more popular irrational fear.

It's a faux-bia.
(, Sat 12 Apr 2008, 1:44, 2 replies)
My unusual childhood phobias, what they all had in common, and an attempt to understand the root cause of discrimination.
When I was aged 6-9, I had a couple of unusual phobias.

To start with, when my parents got me a copy of the Alice in Wonderland book, there was an image of Alice with a long neck. This picture freaked the shit out of me. I could see this unholy apparition and just found it extremely disturbing. I was only 6 at the time, and my mother was reading me the book. Instead of listening attentively, I was scared to death that there might be more scary illustrations. The long-necked Alice continued to haunt me for some months to come. Although it petrified me, it had some sort of fascination to it (fascinated by it's scariness?), but that lead me to think about it more and even looking at it - thus making that unholy image appear in my thoughts more often. In the end, I persuaded my mum to hide the book. She hid it so well she forgot where she put it, and that even today some 30 odd years later, the last I heard she still hadn't found it (she still lives at the same address).
Alice with a long neck

When I was 8 (or possibly 7), I came across a picture that showed the evolution of human skulls from the earliest hominids to Homo Sapiens. I found regular skulls a bit scary, but looking at the elongated skulls of Homo Whatever frightened me. It was some ancient primeval force come back from the dead.

An image similar to an image comparing the skull of Homo Sapiens to several other early hominids.

Then, there were non-standard TV test patterns. One day, instead of seeing the usual one, I saw one that looked like a Christmas tree and it scared me.

And then, aged 9, I saw a cartoon which had an episode that featured a flash-forward to the future. To make it look like it was a long time from now, the characters appeared to have aged considerably. They had not become deformed in some hideous way, but even so, their older selves terrified me. From that point on, I became terrified of seeing older versions of people who I had seen younger. Looking at old people did not bother me, it was just seeing them age. For a couple of weeks after I saw that cartoon, I was afraid I'd have a nightmare and witness someone age. Likewise, I was afraid I'd see such a thing happen in another cartoon. Nowadays, I've pretty much gotten over it. Documentaries that feature an old photo of someone and then cut to them being interviewed many years later don't bother me. However, that Star Trek episode where Dr Pulaski ages rapidly still sends shivers down my spine, but the horror is nowhere near as bad as what it was when I was 9.

OK, so there's a pattern beginning to emerge. Can you guess what it is?

.

.

.

.

If you've guessed "Fear of distorted images", you're right. The unusually long neck, the stretched skulls, the unorthodox test pattern and changing facial features - all a sign of distortion of some kind.

One of my hobbies is reverse engineering psychedelic drugs (this would have been a good answer for the "How nerdy are you" question). I have never taken any psycedelics (in fact, I've never taken anything stronger than Alcohol), and have never meditated myself into a similar state of mind, so I have no firsthand experience of 'that' state of mind. People who've had such an experience often say that it's impossible to describe and they say that written accounts barely scratch the surface. Being the geek that I am, I like to read through experiences of trips and from what information I can gather, give myself the challenge of trying to mentally re-construct what state of mind I'll end up in and how this will affect my perception of the world and try and imagine myself in that state of mind. One way of looking at it: Imagine if you're English and the only foreign language you speak is poor French. Now, go to Morocco and try talking to some Arab whose only foreign language is a different kind of poor French. Communication will be slow to say the least, and only the simplest of concepts can be communicated. Now, with an English speaker, you can communicate more fluently. Try and imagine yourself connected to the Arab by a 'perception-pipe'. This 'perception-pipe' is narrow, thus restricting the flow of ideas. With the English person, the pipe will be somewhat wider. Now, if you have a PHD and you're communicating with someone who also has a PHD in a similar field, the 'perception-pipe' will be wider still. To properly describe a psychedelic experience would require a pipe several orders of magnitude wider that makes the size-difference between the other three pipes look miniscule by comparison. In fact, instead of a three-dimensional hollowed cylinder, the 'pipe' may have to be a shape of more than 3 dimensions. The narrowing of the 'perception-pipe' is probably deliberate to prevent your brain from being overwhelmed. Also, if you've experienced the world from different points of view, that also helps. Just bear in mind that the points-of-view space is much bigger and has many more dimensions than you previously imagined. I have started reading Aldous Huxley's "The Doors of Perception" but never got round to finishing it. Also around 1999, I was browsing someone’s personal webpage and they had page after page of pictures of raves and their lighting effects (strobe-lights, laser lights, etc), and after a couple of pages of this, there was a link to lots of drug-resources, and one of these pages had experiences of LSD/'Shrooms/etc.

So what the blazing gadzunkas does my geeky waffle have to do with fear of distorted images, I hear you ask? You know I mentioned above that I have never had a psychedelic experience? I may have been wrong. I have an extremely faint memory of experiencing something that might have resembled a bad trip in my very early childhood. Maybe it was a bad dream, or maybe I may have accidentally eaten something one of my childminders left carelessly lying around (it would not have been my parents - they did not do that sort of thing). What happened was that I remember everything becoming more colourful and lovely. This lasted for a bit, and then everything became completely scary. This lasted for a while. When it was beginning to subside, I started to think of the wonderful things that I saw, but that did not help me 'recover' because I was still able to conceive the things I experienced in my disturbing experience (I cannot remember any details). This memory must have remained completely repressed until my teenaged years. I had not done any drugs but did hear about the concept of the bad trip and the word Psychedelic. Had I heard of the word 'Psychedelic' when I was aged 3, I recon my communication would have improved dramatically. Now, you can use 'fuck-feeling' if you don't know what 'orgasm' means, but AFAIK, there's no such substitute for 'Psychedelic'. Anyway, at the time, It did remind me that this might have possibly happened, but only remembered the outline. I have a theory that when I saw the picture of Alice with the long neck aged 6, this may have triggered a flashback to my state of mind I had in that psychedelic experience I may have had. The distortion would have reminded me of the distortions caused by psychedelic experiences. If it wasn’t the result of accidentally ingesting a hallucinogen, maybe my brain hadn't fully formed it's perception-pipe-limiting abilities yet, or maybe I was just ill, or maybe it was just a bad dream.

Anyway, the last time I looked up "fear of distorted images" on Google, I couldn't find anything. I don't know if there's anything on Wikipedia because I have absolutely no idea where to look. Perhaps someone could give me some helpful pointers. Who knows, maybe I've stumbled across something previously unknown in psychology.

One implication that this could have is that it might shed light on the root cause of racism. Seeing someone who’s skin is a different colour than what you're used to might be considered a 'distortion' and if the person suffers from fear of distorted images, this may force them to subjectively come up with negative perceptions of their own accord. Now, if this person lives in a racist culture, they may have their beliefs re-enforced by racists who cement these evil ideas in their heads. While nearly everyone has seen the full range of skin-colours, not everyone has seen an image of someone suffering from Cherubism (see here for a picture). Now, if you're feeling shocked, maybe it's because somewhere deep down inside, you're also suffering from fear of distorted images to some extent.

Nowadays, I'm a big fan of the surreal. I kind of like distorted images. I produce surreal texts and some badly drawn surreal cartoons, and have even written a screensaver that distorts the colours of an image of the desktop.

Oh, and from an olfactory point of view, I was afraid of the smell of Olives and TCP when I was a child. Not sure if this has anything to do with distortions, but I was scared of their smells. Nowadays, Olives are not exactly my favourite food but at least I'll eat them now.

Length? Distorts according to mood.
(, Fri 11 Apr 2008, 13:30, 4 replies)
Glistening
I recoiled with such force that I momentarily left my soul a yard in front of me, and despite my soul having a very attractive although unusually hairy back, particularly up and down the length of the spine, I was glad to have it returned to my blackened innards.
“Be gone, foul wench of the sea!” I wailed, my voice stumbling and swooping gallantly over every vowel and massaging each consonant with its silken verbal fingers. She stood a Volvo’s length away from me but still managed to cup my testes in her cold palm. Her smile was ugly yet endearing. Her teeth dared me to withdraw my scrotum from her delicate grasp. But I dared not.

It was some hours later that I finally realised I had a phobia of mermaids. She remained on the floor, smiling up at me, her scales resting on the dampened concrete, her hand and my scrotum now in a state of thermal equilibrium. She put a brave face on but I could see she was drying out. It wouldn’t be long before she would need to return to the sea. Could I last that long? Could I contain my fear and all the trimmings? It was to be a great test.

I found that if I shuffled to one side she would pursue me and maintain her gentle scrotal support. It was the start of a journey I would never forget. I shuffled, inch by inch, all the way from Manchester’s Urbis building to Blackpool’s North Pier. The seasons came and went and came again, but finally we reached our destination. She smelled the sea and her grip relaxed. Still, we shuffled to the end of the pier. She glanced out to the briny horizon and gazed back at me lovingly. There was no doubt we had formed a bond. I stepped back, taking my scrotum with me. It fell from her fingers and slapped against my thigh. My testes were my own once more. Rediscovering my masculinity and overcoming my mer-fear, I hoofed her full pelt in the throat. She fell, flailing in a blur of hair, breasts and scales glistening and reflecting back a rainbow of beauty in the light of the setting sun, before plunging into the ocean.

She never resurfaced.

I stood there and shed a tear. I was swiftly joined by Gary Coleman who had enjoyed considerable fortune on the Hook A Duck nearby. He grasped his well-earned Crazy Frog proudly and peered down into the murky depths.
“Good work, motherfucker,” he chirped.
“Cheers, cock!” I howled back.
We kissed on that pier for what seemed like a decade, but was only in fact three days. My phobia was cured.
(, Fri 11 Apr 2008, 11:54, 3 replies)
Waxworks
Can't bear them, will not go near them.
I don't even like dummies in department stores. Think it stems from a family holiday in Llundudno when I was seven. We decided to go into a chamber of horrors on the pier. After being scared shitless by the exhibits I slammed my eyes shut and told me dad to tell me when we were outside. Obviously, he did what any responsible parent would do and marched me right up to the scariest model he could find and went, "Right Son, you're okay!" I think my scream echoed round the whole building.
*********************************
Fast forward 8 years to 1995 and I was on a youth club trip to Italy. We found out that one of the big Italian horror directors lived locally and there was an exhibition on of his work. I aksed to stay in the youth club where we were bunking but was told I couldn't stay on my own. Reluctantly, I went inside and edged my way around the room, slowly getting used to the place and trying not to look like I was on the verge of passing out. In the middle of the room was a large straw circle, at the edge of which stood a dummy with the face of a rat, in a monk's robe, holding a sword. Time passed, and I had gained a bit of confidence, mainly as I was trying to impress the young lady I fancied. I decided to go up to the monk/ rat for a closer look. as I got close it leaped out the circle, yelling in Italian and brandishing the sword. Heroically, I curled up in a foetal position on the ground sobbing, "Get me out, get me out!"
After I was lead shaking from the building I sat on the steps and lit a cigarette, after many attempts, to calm my nerves. The bastard in the outfit only came legging it out the place and chased me down the street!

Never ever receovered from that.
(, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 15:11, Reply)
Prune Juice
Makes me shit myself.
(, Sat 12 Apr 2008, 12:33, Reply)
First you must choose your weapon
I am near-phobic about making decisions and getting on with things
I find it terrifyingly difficult to make choices
I am terrified of making a wrong choice so I prefer to not make any choices
Blast it. MAKING CHOICES
*faints*
(, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 16:58, Reply)
Internet Violence
Stuff from rotten.com et al.

I once, years ago, watched a video of some poor Russian soldier getting his head cut off with a spade.

Had nightmares for weeks. Since then I've never sought stuff like that again and, if I accidentally come across stuff like that, I look away and close the page before I see anything.

Fictional or reproduced violence I can watch all day long and not turn a hair. But knowing that what I'm watching is real and that some poor bastard is gasping his last (and in incredible pain) is just something I can't tolerate. I empathise too much.

So there's a lot of famous stuff on the Net that I've not seen (Ken Bigley's execution springs to mind) and, too be honest, I can't understand people who *do* watch that stuff. I mean, what kick do you get out watching someone's suffering?

Meh. I'm too soft.

Cheers
(, Thu 10 Apr 2008, 13:58, 10 replies)
Cake or Death?
Death, please.

Sometimes, I look at cake.

It shines under the lights of the displays at the cake shop, the sweet chocolate coating glistens invitingly and my mouth begins to water.

I think longingly of the chocolate and cream swirls running through the tempting confection, and stare with something approaching lust at the delicate chocolate and sugar decoration that adorn the top.

I reach out, desperate to have this wonderous cake for my own.

But I stop. My hand begins to tremble. My forehead takes on a light sheen and my mouth, previously watering, takes on that slightly acidic taste that announces Uncle Vomit is coming to stay, and he's in a pretty big hurry.

You see, it is not cake that I'm scared of. I do, in fact, have an actual pathalogical fear of having cake in my mouth. Just the thought of the spongey texture coating my tongue and sticking to my teeth is enough to send me in to waves of pure disgust.

I am strange, I have grown tro accept this.
(, Wed 16 Apr 2008, 11:16, 105 replies)

This question is now closed.

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