My boyfriend, the unintentional flasher...
Back in the mists of time, I used to have a boyfriend, Mr Rakky. Lovely chap, but it was never going to work out. He was a relaxed, chilled, left wing hippy type, I’m a complete neurotic who used to work for an oil company; he liked real ale and outdoor holidays, I’m more a wine and art galleries girl. He was 5’6” and 8 stone soaking wet, I’m a strapping six footer. However, we got on brilliantly, and loved each other’s company, but the real thing that caused us problems were our nocturnal preferences. I don’t sleep well and can rarely stay in bed past six am without the help of alcohol or prescription sedatives. And that’s round about the time when he would be going to bed, for a lovely long 12-14 hours kip.

One spring, I’d had a row with my housemate and was looking for a new place to live. Mr Rakky kindly said I could stay at his, rent free, till I got myself sorted (we weren’t ready for the living together properly thing at that point). To get over the screwed up sleeping patterns thing, we fell into a routine; I would go study at the library or a friends house till 11pm, meet him for a beer (this was Scotland, where the pubs were open sensible hours..) then go home and listen to audio books till I fell asleep. After a couple of weeks it was clear that he was starting to sleep slightly more conventional hours and actually go to lectures etc.

One night he came to meet me from the library with a rather distressed look on his face. In the pub he was slightly nervy, unusual for him. Eventually after 3 pints of beer he finally told me what was wrong.

He’d fallen asleep the night before around 12 and had awoken to find me gone, as usual. He looked at the clock, half asleep to see it was only 10.30am, something of a new experience for him. He’d shambled out of bed, naked, resplendent with morning wood and had gone to the window, flung open the shutters and had one of those big “good morning world” stretches. And then heard a scream. When he looked down into the courtyard at the back of his building he saw not one, not two, but 20 very distressed five year olds looking up at him and pointing.

And a very, very angry primary school teacher.

He was nearly in tears by this point; I however, as the loving girlfriend, was crying with laughter.

A few things changed after that; he started sleeping in his pants and I bought him some net curtains, just in case.

Length? Six years. And I never let him forget it, usually by shouting, “Show her your cock” every time a small child walked past.
Happy days...
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Sun 14 Oct 2007, 18:19, Reply)