Profile for Pavlov's Frog:
Used to be called 'swiftyisNOTevil,' until I got bored and changed my name.
Hmmm...I've been here a while, so it's probably time to give more info about myself. Well, I'm highly opinionated, although I do try and respect the opinions of other people (as long as their opinions aren't completely retarded). I tend to get on with most people, although if I think someone's a complete cock I won't be afraid to let them know.
I mainly listen to Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, the Beatles and AC/DC. I firmly believe that most modern music is shit, and have heard very little to change my mind.
I enjoy getting drunk and debating complex issues while slurring and trying not to fall off my chair, sitting outside in the sunshine and reading a good book, and having philosophical discussions while eating biscuits.
If you ever want to drop me a line, feel free.
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Used to be called 'swiftyisNOTevil,' until I got bored and changed my name.
Hmmm...I've been here a while, so it's probably time to give more info about myself. Well, I'm highly opinionated, although I do try and respect the opinions of other people (as long as their opinions aren't completely retarded). I tend to get on with most people, although if I think someone's a complete cock I won't be afraid to let them know.
I mainly listen to Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, the Beatles and AC/DC. I firmly believe that most modern music is shit, and have heard very little to change my mind.
I enjoy getting drunk and debating complex issues while slurring and trying not to fall off my chair, sitting outside in the sunshine and reading a good book, and having philosophical discussions while eating biscuits.
If you ever want to drop me a line, feel free.
Recent front page messages:
none
Best answers to questions:
» Biggest Sexual Regret
I'm hardly ever on here anymore
But when I saw this question, I couldn't resist posting a cheeky pea...
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 soul-sucking X-factor fame-hungry wannabe 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, David Cameron 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 fucking 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.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the strangest sexual experience I've ever had. Just don't tell anyone else about it.
Please?
P.S I don't apologise for length, but she bloody well should have.
(Tue 13th Dec 2011, 11:42, More)
I'm hardly ever on here anymore
But when I saw this question, I couldn't resist posting a cheeky pea...
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 soul-sucking X-factor fame-hungry wannabe 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, David Cameron 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 fucking 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.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the strangest sexual experience I've ever had. Just don't tell anyone else about it.
Please?
P.S I don't apologise for length, but she bloody well should have.
(Tue 13th Dec 2011, 11:42, More)
» Desperate Times
Any Port in a Storm
I had recently turned 19, and was starting yet another shitty job - selling insurance over the phone, cold-calling. Not exactly a life-affirming experience, but the commission was good, and it was pretty fucking easy. You could have trained monkeys to do it - in fact, looking at some of the people I was training with, they may have been giving this a trial run. The training only lasted 2 weeks. 'This is the phone, press this button to answer. Read this script, and if you are called a cunt, say "Thanks for your time." ' Not exactly brain surgery.
Anyways, one of the girls I was training with had taken a bit of a shine to me. I'm normally quite bad at reading the signs, but she made it pretty fucking obvious - batting her eyelashes at me, laughing at everything I said and following me around like a lost puppy. Only problem was, she was a complete dog. Really fucking ugly - imagine, if you will, a cross between Dawn French and a retarded Jimmy Crankie. Fucking her would probably constitute beastiality. But I'm getting ahead of myself...
When the two weeks training were finished, a post-training pub trip was suggested. Never one to turn down a drinking session, I readily agreed, and we all traipsed down the local boozer. The first round was bought, and we chatted about work, football, and other mundane topics over our pints. After we'd finished, one of the lads suggests getting a round of shots in, to liven things up. On reflection, this may have been where it all went wrong..
A round of tequila shots is swiftly demolished, followed by another. At this point, I start chatting to Claire, thinking perhaps I've been wrong about her. She seems nice enough - still ugly, but with a nice personality. She laughs at my jokes, so she can't be all bad...
Another round of drinks. I'm beginning to think my initial judgement may have been a bit hasty. Sure, she's ugly, but she does have tits after all. And, as we all know, there's no such thing as an ugly pair of tits.
Another round. You know, now I come to think about it, she's not really that ugly. Well, I mean yes, she's ugly, but not totally ugly. And she does like my jokes. That's always a plus.
After a few more rounds, I'm becoming more and more convinced that she's actually quite good-looking, and I've just failed to notice it. And her tits are fantastic. Admittedly, by now I'm seeing two pairs swimming in front of my eyes, but they both look great. And who wouldn't love a bird with two pairs of tits. I may be onto a winner here...
After another round of shots, I decide I must kiss her. Fuck knows why - I was really wasted at this point. So I look her in the eyes, lean in...and miss completely. Nowhere near. After adjusting my aim, I manage to connect on the second attempt, and she promptly thrusts her tongue down my throat, almost cutting off my air supply.
After sucking face for what seemed like hours, she suggests getting a taxi back to hers. Stupidly, I agree. The sensible part of my brain told me I'd probably regret this in the morning, but I was drunk, horny, and my beer goggles were an inch thick.
The taxi ride is a blur - I can vaguely remember having my fingers sucked. Also, when we stopped, it took me three tries to open the car door. That tells you what kind of state I was in.
We make our way upstairs, and, on entering her bedroom, I notice there seems to be a lot of cuddly toys littering the place. Vague warning bells sound in the back of my skull, but I drunkenly ignore them. She leaves me to 'freshen up', and I try to get undressed, which is more complicated than normal due to my drunken state. On removing my trousers, I lose my balance, and crash into her bedside table, sending cuddly toys flying in all directions. Lying on my back, trousers round my ankles, surrounded by cuddly toys, I begin to question the wisdom of my actions, when I hear a voice from the doorway.
"Like what you see?" I look up, and behold a mountain of pink lace and tassles, barely covering a female marshmallow man. "Hell yeah" I say, lying through my teeth.
We climb into bed, and thankfully my memory is pretty blurred from here onwards. I like to think it's my brains way of protecting itself, scabbing over painful memories. I do remember going down on her, and almost drowning in the layers of flab. Also, I remembed muzzily thinking that she seemed pretty tight, for a fat girl.
After the deed was done, I collapsed into drunken slumber, unaware of the horrors that would await the next morning.
I awoke with a pounding headache. Someone had glued my tongue to the roof of my mouth, and I couldn't work out where I was. This wasn't my room - it was too pink for one thing, and I'm pretty sure I don't own any cuddly toys.
Then it hit me like a sledgehammer blow. Oh fuck. I hadn't. Tell me I hadn't.
I slowly looked round. Oh Jesus, I had.
My movements must have woke her, for she stretched, causing her flab to ripple, then opened her eyes and turned to look at me.
"Last night was amazing" she said dreamily.
"Mmmm" I said non-commitedly.
"And it wasn't as sore as I thought it would be"
"Yeah...wait a minute, what?"
"Well, you know, I'd always heard your first time was supposed to be painful."
"Your first time? First time having sex? You mean you're a virgin?"
"Well, not any more, silly. And you were great! So, what do you want to do today?"
Oh holy fuck. Holy fucking cunting Jesus fuck. This was not good.
"Emmmm, well, I've got to kind of, um, go. Yeah, I need to get home. Pretty quick in fact. I'm running late, actually. So I'd better, you know, go. Like, now." As I was gibbering, I had sprung out of bed and was dressing as quickly as humanly possible.
"Why? What do you have to do?"
I paused. I was too hungover to think quickly.
"Oh, well, um, I've got to...uh...go to...church. Yeah, I've got to go to church."
"Oh, okay. So will I see you again?"
"Sure - I'll call you"
I rushed out her room, still doing up my trousers, before she remembered I didn't have her number. As I pulled up the zip, I looked up and saw a naked middle aged man staring at me, open-mouthed. Holy shit, she still lived with her parents. This was not good. He looked at me, and I could tell he was still half asleep. Thinking quickly, I gave him a warm smile, said, "Morning" and marched past him and down the stairs. I grabbed my shoes and high-tailed it out the door before he came to his senses and tried to crucify me for deflowering his daughter.
I called a taxi, then caught a train, and eventually made it home, whereupon I headed straight for the shower and didn't emerge until I had scrubbed every last inch of my body. Jesus, that was bad. But at least it was over until Monday. Or so I thought...
You see, at some point the previous night, in a burst of drunken idiocy I had given her my mobile number. The first text came through after I had stepped out the shower. 'Hey, still thinking of you xxx'
"Shit" I thought. "I'd better let her down gently"
So I texted her back, 'Listen, you're a great girl, but I'm not really looking for a relationship right now. Hope you understand'
She texted back 5 minutes later. 'I'm not looking for a relationship either. How about we just keep it casual? xxx'
Hmmm, she's not quite getting it. So I texted back, 'Actually, I'm kind of seeing someone just now. Should have said earlier - sorry' (This was a lie - I just wanted rid of this girl)
"That should do it" thinks I, until another text comes through 10 minutes later. 'That's okay - it can be our little secret xxx'
A bit annoyed by this stage, I text back 'Look, I'm sorry, but we can't do this. It was a drunken mistake.' I can't really be any more clear with her. Hopefully she'll...what's this? Another text. Oh fuck.
'But I think I'm in love with you'
Great. Fucking great. Now, I'm really not an evil person, but I knew I would have to be pretty harsh with her if I didn't want to have a stalker on my hands. So I sent back a message saying 'Look, I don't fancy you, I was blind drunk last night, and if I was sober I never would have slept with you.'
I felt like a prick once I'd sent it, but I didn't get any more texts through. Result.
It turns out she phoned in sick on Monday, and didn't come back to work. I do feel really bad about that. But, at the end of the day, I did give her a shag she would never have gotten otherwise.
In a way, it's almost like charity work. Giving to the needy and all that.
I'm practically a saint...
(Sat 17th Nov 2007, 23:56, More)
Any Port in a Storm
I had recently turned 19, and was starting yet another shitty job - selling insurance over the phone, cold-calling. Not exactly a life-affirming experience, but the commission was good, and it was pretty fucking easy. You could have trained monkeys to do it - in fact, looking at some of the people I was training with, they may have been giving this a trial run. The training only lasted 2 weeks. 'This is the phone, press this button to answer. Read this script, and if you are called a cunt, say "Thanks for your time." ' Not exactly brain surgery.
Anyways, one of the girls I was training with had taken a bit of a shine to me. I'm normally quite bad at reading the signs, but she made it pretty fucking obvious - batting her eyelashes at me, laughing at everything I said and following me around like a lost puppy. Only problem was, she was a complete dog. Really fucking ugly - imagine, if you will, a cross between Dawn French and a retarded Jimmy Crankie. Fucking her would probably constitute beastiality. But I'm getting ahead of myself...
When the two weeks training were finished, a post-training pub trip was suggested. Never one to turn down a drinking session, I readily agreed, and we all traipsed down the local boozer. The first round was bought, and we chatted about work, football, and other mundane topics over our pints. After we'd finished, one of the lads suggests getting a round of shots in, to liven things up. On reflection, this may have been where it all went wrong..
A round of tequila shots is swiftly demolished, followed by another. At this point, I start chatting to Claire, thinking perhaps I've been wrong about her. She seems nice enough - still ugly, but with a nice personality. She laughs at my jokes, so she can't be all bad...
Another round of drinks. I'm beginning to think my initial judgement may have been a bit hasty. Sure, she's ugly, but she does have tits after all. And, as we all know, there's no such thing as an ugly pair of tits.
Another round. You know, now I come to think about it, she's not really that ugly. Well, I mean yes, she's ugly, but not totally ugly. And she does like my jokes. That's always a plus.
After a few more rounds, I'm becoming more and more convinced that she's actually quite good-looking, and I've just failed to notice it. And her tits are fantastic. Admittedly, by now I'm seeing two pairs swimming in front of my eyes, but they both look great. And who wouldn't love a bird with two pairs of tits. I may be onto a winner here...
After another round of shots, I decide I must kiss her. Fuck knows why - I was really wasted at this point. So I look her in the eyes, lean in...and miss completely. Nowhere near. After adjusting my aim, I manage to connect on the second attempt, and she promptly thrusts her tongue down my throat, almost cutting off my air supply.
After sucking face for what seemed like hours, she suggests getting a taxi back to hers. Stupidly, I agree. The sensible part of my brain told me I'd probably regret this in the morning, but I was drunk, horny, and my beer goggles were an inch thick.
The taxi ride is a blur - I can vaguely remember having my fingers sucked. Also, when we stopped, it took me three tries to open the car door. That tells you what kind of state I was in.
We make our way upstairs, and, on entering her bedroom, I notice there seems to be a lot of cuddly toys littering the place. Vague warning bells sound in the back of my skull, but I drunkenly ignore them. She leaves me to 'freshen up', and I try to get undressed, which is more complicated than normal due to my drunken state. On removing my trousers, I lose my balance, and crash into her bedside table, sending cuddly toys flying in all directions. Lying on my back, trousers round my ankles, surrounded by cuddly toys, I begin to question the wisdom of my actions, when I hear a voice from the doorway.
"Like what you see?" I look up, and behold a mountain of pink lace and tassles, barely covering a female marshmallow man. "Hell yeah" I say, lying through my teeth.
We climb into bed, and thankfully my memory is pretty blurred from here onwards. I like to think it's my brains way of protecting itself, scabbing over painful memories. I do remember going down on her, and almost drowning in the layers of flab. Also, I remembed muzzily thinking that she seemed pretty tight, for a fat girl.
After the deed was done, I collapsed into drunken slumber, unaware of the horrors that would await the next morning.
I awoke with a pounding headache. Someone had glued my tongue to the roof of my mouth, and I couldn't work out where I was. This wasn't my room - it was too pink for one thing, and I'm pretty sure I don't own any cuddly toys.
Then it hit me like a sledgehammer blow. Oh fuck. I hadn't. Tell me I hadn't.
I slowly looked round. Oh Jesus, I had.
My movements must have woke her, for she stretched, causing her flab to ripple, then opened her eyes and turned to look at me.
"Last night was amazing" she said dreamily.
"Mmmm" I said non-commitedly.
"And it wasn't as sore as I thought it would be"
"Yeah...wait a minute, what?"
"Well, you know, I'd always heard your first time was supposed to be painful."
"Your first time? First time having sex? You mean you're a virgin?"
"Well, not any more, silly. And you were great! So, what do you want to do today?"
Oh holy fuck. Holy fucking cunting Jesus fuck. This was not good.
"Emmmm, well, I've got to kind of, um, go. Yeah, I need to get home. Pretty quick in fact. I'm running late, actually. So I'd better, you know, go. Like, now." As I was gibbering, I had sprung out of bed and was dressing as quickly as humanly possible.
"Why? What do you have to do?"
I paused. I was too hungover to think quickly.
"Oh, well, um, I've got to...uh...go to...church. Yeah, I've got to go to church."
"Oh, okay. So will I see you again?"
"Sure - I'll call you"
I rushed out her room, still doing up my trousers, before she remembered I didn't have her number. As I pulled up the zip, I looked up and saw a naked middle aged man staring at me, open-mouthed. Holy shit, she still lived with her parents. This was not good. He looked at me, and I could tell he was still half asleep. Thinking quickly, I gave him a warm smile, said, "Morning" and marched past him and down the stairs. I grabbed my shoes and high-tailed it out the door before he came to his senses and tried to crucify me for deflowering his daughter.
I called a taxi, then caught a train, and eventually made it home, whereupon I headed straight for the shower and didn't emerge until I had scrubbed every last inch of my body. Jesus, that was bad. But at least it was over until Monday. Or so I thought...
You see, at some point the previous night, in a burst of drunken idiocy I had given her my mobile number. The first text came through after I had stepped out the shower. 'Hey, still thinking of you xxx'
"Shit" I thought. "I'd better let her down gently"
So I texted her back, 'Listen, you're a great girl, but I'm not really looking for a relationship right now. Hope you understand'
She texted back 5 minutes later. 'I'm not looking for a relationship either. How about we just keep it casual? xxx'
Hmmm, she's not quite getting it. So I texted back, 'Actually, I'm kind of seeing someone just now. Should have said earlier - sorry' (This was a lie - I just wanted rid of this girl)
"That should do it" thinks I, until another text comes through 10 minutes later. 'That's okay - it can be our little secret xxx'
A bit annoyed by this stage, I text back 'Look, I'm sorry, but we can't do this. It was a drunken mistake.' I can't really be any more clear with her. Hopefully she'll...what's this? Another text. Oh fuck.
'But I think I'm in love with you'
Great. Fucking great. Now, I'm really not an evil person, but I knew I would have to be pretty harsh with her if I didn't want to have a stalker on my hands. So I sent back a message saying 'Look, I don't fancy you, I was blind drunk last night, and if I was sober I never would have slept with you.'
I felt like a prick once I'd sent it, but I didn't get any more texts through. Result.
It turns out she phoned in sick on Monday, and didn't come back to work. I do feel really bad about that. But, at the end of the day, I did give her a shag she would never have gotten otherwise.
In a way, it's almost like charity work. Giving to the needy and all that.
I'm practically a saint...
(Sat 17th Nov 2007, 23:56, More)
» Abusing freebies
Scottish Invasion
About a year ago, I was working in the sales team at T-mobile. Shit job, but the commission was good.
Anyway, they had recently launched a 'Web and Walk' contract add-on that allowed you to get the internet through your phone. As it was a new product, they were offering us six quid commission on EVERY one we sold. "Result" thinks I, and I go on to offer it in almost every call. I sold to old people, young people, guys and girls, and at the end of the month I had sold something like 40 of them, earning me about 240 quid on top of my usual commission and wage. I put the money towards a new computer, and thought no more of it.
Turns out there was an additional bonus we hadn't been told about. You see, T-Mobile were one of the sponsors of last years World Cup, and, as an additional sales incentive, the top 40 sales people for that month would be flown out to watch a game in Germany. And I had ended up in the top 40. Me and one other guy from our centre, whose name was Alan - the only two Scotsmen, going to watch the England Vs Trinidad and Tobago game. Joy.
The day before the match we flew from Glasgow to London, paid for by the company. Got down there about 10ish and caught a cab to our hotel, where everyone was meeting up. We had to be up at 6 the next morning to catch the flight to Nuremberg, so we were planning to get to bed pretty early. We put our bags into our rooms, then figured we'd head down to the hotel bar and see if anyone else was down there. We found a table with other T-Mobile employees and introduced ourselves. After chatting for a bit, one of them asked, "Are you not gonna get yourselves a drink?" We were pretty skint, and told him so. "Oh, that's alright" he said, then came out with the sweetest words in the English language - "It's a free bar"
Free bar? Hell fucking yes. We felt like Jonathan King in a nursery. A pint and a triple whisky to start, then a few vodkas, bottles of Magners, and whatever else took our fancy. Everyone else started heading off to bed, muttering that they had to get up early (lightweights). It ended up being just me, Alan and a Geordie boy left, locked in a drinking battle till the early hours of the morning. At one point, we decided to try a shot of everything from the top row of the bar. Advocaat is fucking disgusting, incidentally. Eventually gave up around 2 and stumbled about the hotel, trying to remember where our rooms were. The place was fucking massive. After half an hour, we remembered our room numbers were printed on our keys, and eventually got to bed about 3am. I had to physically drag myself out of it again at 6. After showering, changing and eating half a packet of Pro Plus caffeine tablets, I felt somewhere near normal again. We managed to choke down some breakfast without throwing up before being ferried to a private terminal to wait for our flight. The Geordie we'd been drinking with earlier hadn't turned up, and the flight was delayed while they phoned the hotel to wake him up.
While we were waiting, we were offered refreshments from, wait for it, yet another free bar. Two Bloody Marys and a vodka and fresh orange later, we were ushered onto a private plane, swaying slightly and no doubt stinking of booze. On the plane, we were just getting to sleep when an air hostess came round offering drinks.
"Champaigne sir?"
"Yes please. Leave the bottle love"
On touching down, I was like a monkey with no arms - completely out my tree. The guard at passport control took one look at me, swaying in the non-existant breeze with a huge grin plastered across my face, and asked, "Are you alright sir?"
"Aye, mate, I'm fucking brilliant."
"Ah, so you're Scottish," he said, as if that explained everything, and handed me my passport back. We got bored of waiting for everyone else to get through passport control, so me and Alan decided to explore the airport for a bit. Being quite drunk already, this perhaps wasn't the best idea, and unsurprisingly we ended up getting lost. We eventually found our way outside where everyone else was sitting on a bus, waiting for us. After a minor bollocking from one of the bosses, we were off to the Hilton hotel for some hospitality. For 'hospitality,' read 'more free drink.' This trip was getting better and better...
There was a buffet set up in the middle of a massive ballroom which we immediately gravitated to. Normal buffet procedure, as I'm sure you're all aware, is to pick up a plate and politely pile a few items onto it for eating later, NOT to stand in the middle of the table stuffing your face with as much food as you can, blocking everyone else from getting in. Guess which option we chose?
After our display of drunken gluttony, we noticed waiters moving serenely around the room, taking drinks orders. There were 4 exotic sounding German lagers to choose from. Not having tasted any of them before, we took the only sensible option. "I'll have one of each Hanz, and keep them coming" At this point, we were drawing a lot of dirty looks, and there seemed to be some barely hidden tutting at our behaviour. Did we care? Did we fuck. Free drink is free drink.
God knows how we made it to the stadium - we were all over the place. We had started singing 'Flower of Scotland,' and 'Scotland the brave' with our arms around each others shoulders on the walk over, and everyone else seemed to be trying to avoid walking beside us. I can't imagine why.
We passed a stall selling memerobilia for the match, and, in our drunken state, decided it would be a great idea to buy Trinidad and Tobago scarves. After all, it's not like we were supporting England (and if any England fans think this is out of order, let me put it this way. If, by some magic stroke of luck, Scotland manage to qualify for Euro 2008, and England don't, would you even consider supporting Scotland? Didn't think so). After making our purchases, we staggered on to the stadium, and tried to find our seats.
Turns out they were slap bang in the middle of a sea of England supporters. Rowdy, noisy, aggressive England supporters. But we didn't care - we were running solely on alcohol and adrenaline by this stage. During the match, whenever Trinidad and Tobago had possession we were up out our seats cheering them on, and when England eventually scored our shouts of 'Offside!' were thankfully drowned out by the rest of the crowd. At one point, one of the England players was fouled, and our shouts of 'Come on ref! That was a blatant dive' started to attract the attention of a number of big, scary looking England fans. Someone in the crowd told us to shut up, which only added fuel to the fire. We again sang 'Flower of Scotland,' but changed the lyrics to 'Flower of Trinidad.' I don't know if you've ever experienced hundreds of people turning to stare at you with violence in their eyes, but it's not something I'd wish on my worst enemy.
Somehow, we survived with only a few insults hurled our way. The rest of the T-Mobile contest winners were seated around us, and I could see them flinching as we booed the England team whenever they had the ball. England eventually won two nil - I really hate to think what would've happened if they'd lost. I suspect our bodies would never have been found.
The rest of the day is hazy - I can barely remember the flight home. Not long after getting back, I had a disciplinary meeting to discuss 'my conduct at work-related events.'
Strangely enough, I never won another sales incentive, no matter how good my sales figures were.
And that's the story of how I wrecked a freebie for everyone else involved. My mother would be proud.
(Sun 11th Nov 2007, 14:53, More)
Scottish Invasion
About a year ago, I was working in the sales team at T-mobile. Shit job, but the commission was good.
Anyway, they had recently launched a 'Web and Walk' contract add-on that allowed you to get the internet through your phone. As it was a new product, they were offering us six quid commission on EVERY one we sold. "Result" thinks I, and I go on to offer it in almost every call. I sold to old people, young people, guys and girls, and at the end of the month I had sold something like 40 of them, earning me about 240 quid on top of my usual commission and wage. I put the money towards a new computer, and thought no more of it.
Turns out there was an additional bonus we hadn't been told about. You see, T-Mobile were one of the sponsors of last years World Cup, and, as an additional sales incentive, the top 40 sales people for that month would be flown out to watch a game in Germany. And I had ended up in the top 40. Me and one other guy from our centre, whose name was Alan - the only two Scotsmen, going to watch the England Vs Trinidad and Tobago game. Joy.
The day before the match we flew from Glasgow to London, paid for by the company. Got down there about 10ish and caught a cab to our hotel, where everyone was meeting up. We had to be up at 6 the next morning to catch the flight to Nuremberg, so we were planning to get to bed pretty early. We put our bags into our rooms, then figured we'd head down to the hotel bar and see if anyone else was down there. We found a table with other T-Mobile employees and introduced ourselves. After chatting for a bit, one of them asked, "Are you not gonna get yourselves a drink?" We were pretty skint, and told him so. "Oh, that's alright" he said, then came out with the sweetest words in the English language - "It's a free bar"
Free bar? Hell fucking yes. We felt like Jonathan King in a nursery. A pint and a triple whisky to start, then a few vodkas, bottles of Magners, and whatever else took our fancy. Everyone else started heading off to bed, muttering that they had to get up early (lightweights). It ended up being just me, Alan and a Geordie boy left, locked in a drinking battle till the early hours of the morning. At one point, we decided to try a shot of everything from the top row of the bar. Advocaat is fucking disgusting, incidentally. Eventually gave up around 2 and stumbled about the hotel, trying to remember where our rooms were. The place was fucking massive. After half an hour, we remembered our room numbers were printed on our keys, and eventually got to bed about 3am. I had to physically drag myself out of it again at 6. After showering, changing and eating half a packet of Pro Plus caffeine tablets, I felt somewhere near normal again. We managed to choke down some breakfast without throwing up before being ferried to a private terminal to wait for our flight. The Geordie we'd been drinking with earlier hadn't turned up, and the flight was delayed while they phoned the hotel to wake him up.
While we were waiting, we were offered refreshments from, wait for it, yet another free bar. Two Bloody Marys and a vodka and fresh orange later, we were ushered onto a private plane, swaying slightly and no doubt stinking of booze. On the plane, we were just getting to sleep when an air hostess came round offering drinks.
"Champaigne sir?"
"Yes please. Leave the bottle love"
On touching down, I was like a monkey with no arms - completely out my tree. The guard at passport control took one look at me, swaying in the non-existant breeze with a huge grin plastered across my face, and asked, "Are you alright sir?"
"Aye, mate, I'm fucking brilliant."
"Ah, so you're Scottish," he said, as if that explained everything, and handed me my passport back. We got bored of waiting for everyone else to get through passport control, so me and Alan decided to explore the airport for a bit. Being quite drunk already, this perhaps wasn't the best idea, and unsurprisingly we ended up getting lost. We eventually found our way outside where everyone else was sitting on a bus, waiting for us. After a minor bollocking from one of the bosses, we were off to the Hilton hotel for some hospitality. For 'hospitality,' read 'more free drink.' This trip was getting better and better...
There was a buffet set up in the middle of a massive ballroom which we immediately gravitated to. Normal buffet procedure, as I'm sure you're all aware, is to pick up a plate and politely pile a few items onto it for eating later, NOT to stand in the middle of the table stuffing your face with as much food as you can, blocking everyone else from getting in. Guess which option we chose?
After our display of drunken gluttony, we noticed waiters moving serenely around the room, taking drinks orders. There were 4 exotic sounding German lagers to choose from. Not having tasted any of them before, we took the only sensible option. "I'll have one of each Hanz, and keep them coming" At this point, we were drawing a lot of dirty looks, and there seemed to be some barely hidden tutting at our behaviour. Did we care? Did we fuck. Free drink is free drink.
God knows how we made it to the stadium - we were all over the place. We had started singing 'Flower of Scotland,' and 'Scotland the brave' with our arms around each others shoulders on the walk over, and everyone else seemed to be trying to avoid walking beside us. I can't imagine why.
We passed a stall selling memerobilia for the match, and, in our drunken state, decided it would be a great idea to buy Trinidad and Tobago scarves. After all, it's not like we were supporting England (and if any England fans think this is out of order, let me put it this way. If, by some magic stroke of luck, Scotland manage to qualify for Euro 2008, and England don't, would you even consider supporting Scotland? Didn't think so). After making our purchases, we staggered on to the stadium, and tried to find our seats.
Turns out they were slap bang in the middle of a sea of England supporters. Rowdy, noisy, aggressive England supporters. But we didn't care - we were running solely on alcohol and adrenaline by this stage. During the match, whenever Trinidad and Tobago had possession we were up out our seats cheering them on, and when England eventually scored our shouts of 'Offside!' were thankfully drowned out by the rest of the crowd. At one point, one of the England players was fouled, and our shouts of 'Come on ref! That was a blatant dive' started to attract the attention of a number of big, scary looking England fans. Someone in the crowd told us to shut up, which only added fuel to the fire. We again sang 'Flower of Scotland,' but changed the lyrics to 'Flower of Trinidad.' I don't know if you've ever experienced hundreds of people turning to stare at you with violence in their eyes, but it's not something I'd wish on my worst enemy.
Somehow, we survived with only a few insults hurled our way. The rest of the T-Mobile contest winners were seated around us, and I could see them flinching as we booed the England team whenever they had the ball. England eventually won two nil - I really hate to think what would've happened if they'd lost. I suspect our bodies would never have been found.
The rest of the day is hazy - I can barely remember the flight home. Not long after getting back, I had a disciplinary meeting to discuss 'my conduct at work-related events.'
Strangely enough, I never won another sales incentive, no matter how good my sales figures were.
And that's the story of how I wrecked a freebie for everyone else involved. My mother would be proud.
(Sun 11th Nov 2007, 14:53, More)
» Phobias
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 13th Apr 2008, 23:58, More)
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 13th Apr 2008, 23:58, More)