» Have you ever paid for sex?

Take three prostitutes, after meals and call me if the condition changes...
Nope, not paid for it myself but I know someone who had it paid for him and on the NHS no less.

It was the much older brother of a good friend of mine, who was provided with the services of a prostitute by an NHS counsellor.

It was sort of a knock on effect of being found by his mother wearing her underwear. After he peeled his mother off the ceiling, he explained to her that he was wearing her underwear because he was a woman trapped in a man's body (a short, fat and very spotty body) rather than a bit of pervy sexual experimentation. Not sure if there actually *is* a good answer in that situation anyway.

After this admission, he started to formally go through the gender reassignment process. His counseller was taking him through the early stages of therapy and counselling and quickly divined the possible truth of the situation. Namely that he was an overly shy middle aged virgin who had never been near a woman who wasn't a family member.

So he was provided with a few trips to a local brothel (on the NHS) and was very happily fucked into lucidity. Firstly, I suspect that they offer this service to a lot of people in his situation, to make sure that they know what they really want and hopefully avoid screwing them up for life and secondly, I'm not suggesting for a minute that everyone who wants a sex change just needs to have a good shag. Just him.

I must confess at the time I was single and bloody jealous when I heard about him getting laid not once but three times on the NHS.

Then I remembered what my NHS specs looked like - one of her arms was probably held on with sellotape.
(Thu 19th Jan 2006, 14:34, More)

» Accidentally Erotic

The letter 'W'
I had to have special handrwriting lessons in my second year at secondary school (not because I was dim, just because my scrawl was utterly illegible - think drunken neurotic spider with a twitch).

The teacher who gave these 'special' lessons was Miss Reeves, the amazingly attractive English teacher, who was also my form teacher that year.

I didn't tell anyone about the lessons, mainly to avoid being teased for being a spaz and for having 'private' lessons with a teacher that all of the overdeveloped testosterone freaks in my year were obsessed with.

Anyway, to teach me to write like a normal person she sat next to me at a desk and observed the way I wrote and suggested writing exercises to improve my hand.

Sometimes her leg would brush against mine, sending a jolt of *something* all the way through me.

One occasion she got me writing the lower case letter 'w'. Big strings of them. To me in this strange situation they looked like breasts. Big bouncy breasts. Cue instant combination of horniness and utter embarrassment - surely she could see that I had drawn breasts. Lovely, long lines of pert, jiggling breasts. I spent the rest of the lesson in the most wierdly charged erotic state (or at least as much of a state that my twelve year old self could get into).

Every time I write the letter 'w' I think of breasts and I think of Miss Reeves.
(Thu 2nd Feb 2006, 14:18, More)

» Now, there was no need for that...

Death or embarresment. Which would you choose?

I was 14 and was rushed to hospital with a burst appendix and a potentially life threatening case of acute peritonitis (if you want to know why it was so acute, set the question "How dumb are you?" in the near future and I'll oblige with the stupid story).

Anyway my mum was sat by the bed, a nurse put the curtains round, then came in with a (small) bowl of shaving foam and a razor.

"What's that for?" I asked in my weakened state.
"I need to shave your pubic hair before the operation" she replied.

She lifted up the hospital gown looked for a minute, considered, then said "Actually, I think you'll be ok as you are."

Great, I'm actually at death's door and I've just been informed I'm underdeveloped. While my mum is in the room, sat right next to me.

Nurses, next time some kid is in your ward and might not make it, don't give him a puberty complex as his last living memory.
(Thu 16th Jun 2005, 17:45, More)

» Shoplifting

Not stealing, adding.
This game is best played with two or more participants in a busy supermarket - this game was invented by an old girlfriend of mine.

What you do is stalk round the aisles adding small and inexpensive items to trolleys and baskets - extra points if the trolley is being wheeled, or the basket is being carried at the same time.

On one memorable occasion I added a small triangular box of spices to a trolley (jaunty little backhand flick into the trolley as I passed the guy wheeling it)- by chance I later I ended up next but one in line at the checkout to the trolley owners, a middle aged couple.

The bloke was unloading the trolley and the woman was packing. He looked bemusedly at the spice package, shrugged then put it with the other stuff - his wife/gf picked it up after it had been scanned and asked him why he had bought this stupid thing.

He denied having bought it, a vicious screaming row ensued.

Feeling incredibly guilty and wanting to laugh like a baboon at the same time is quite an odd sensation.
(Sat 12th Jan 2008, 15:37, More)

» Unexpected Nudity

An Inspector Minge mystery...
This is one of those true stories that sound completely made up, it's also quite long but the payoff is worth it I reckon.

Back in 1991, having graduated during a recession (there's a lot of it about) I found myself struggling to get a job - I eventually found work as a guard on the Underground.

Apart from getting to live the childhood dream of many and drive a train from time to time, the job mostly consisted of standing at the back of the train and opeing and closing the doors. Part of this involves making sure that as the train leaves that no one is caught in the doors and being dragged (there was a light that told you that all the doors were closed but you still needed to check).

While I was being trained, we were told to observe the train as it left the station until 3/4 of the train length had gone into the tunnel before closing our own door, which involved leaning out of the carriage as the train departed and slowly picked up speed. During my training they changed this to 2/3 of the train length following a short spate of accidents on the Central line - guards kept smacking their heads on the wall at the end of the platform (ironically known as the Headwall), no-one knew why and the guards themselves couldn't remember how it happened.

One time a driver got to Shepherd's Bush, heard the train doors open and waited and waited for them to close. Nothing happened. He called up the guard over the extremely rubbish intercom they had back then and got no answer. He eventually walked the entire length of the platform to remonstrate with his guard (a time honoured tradition involving liberal use of the word cunt - a typical example I remember is when a driver asked me to save him one of the many newspapers left by passengers - I gave him a Daily Mirror and he said "Next time, get me one with tits in you cunt"). On reaching the end of the train the driver found the guard lying on the floor of the carriage, unconscious and bleeding from a head wound.

There had obviously been a passenger in the carriage who had opened the doors to leave the train but not told anyone about the unconscious guard. The guard later recovered but as with previous cases couldn't recall how it came about. With CCTV coverage being sporadic and of very poor quality at the time it appeared to be an unsolvable mystery.

Anyways, shortly after this, I passed out as a fully qualified guard and started working on the line as normal. One day, heading westbound from Epping to West Ruislip I was at Holland Park, not long after the morning peak.

The train and the platform were largely empty apart from a woman sitting on a bench about 3/4 of the way down the platform. As the train was leaving the station I noticed her watching me, so looked back at her - as I started to draw level (and as the train continued to accelerate) she smiled at me, pulled up her skirt to reveal, well everything - I was understandably transfixed and stared at her as the train went passed until I suddenly realised what was happening and drew my head in sharply, the tiniest moment before my head drew level with the headwall at the end of the platform.

So I had figured that was what was happening, she was transfixing guards with her genitals and causing them to smack their heads into the headwall.

I reported it, expecting some thanks for solving the mystery, instead everyone thought I was making it up. I only did the job for about eighteen months but that was just one of several bizarre experiences, there was also the North Acton Sniper (who used to shoot out train windows with a high powered air rifle), the naked sunbather on the Chigwell loop and the idiot who threw himself off a bridge in front of our train at South Woodford, but instead bounced off the track.
(Sat 30th May 2009, 12:22, More)