» Guilty Pleasures, part 2

The opportunity doesn't arise that often
A few circumstances need to come together for this one, which I've experienced twice in my life, but on both occasions filled me with unholy glee.

1) I need to have a seat on a train that has no other seats available, but where there's still plenty of standing space.
2) A parent needs to come in with a young child (old enough to walk, young enough to be ickle), and both must have to stand because all the seats are full.

I will offer my seat to the child, as in general parents are more concerned about their kid's comfort than their own. As they reach their destination they normally head towards the door, standing up a minute before the doors open.

My guilty pleasure is timing a smile and a wave at the little kid just before the train starts braking. As they wave back they take their hands off the handrail, and if my luck holds the deceleration of the train makes them land flat on their face.
(Mon 17th Mar 2008, 2:17, More)

» Stalked

The terrorist
First, the backstory. I happened to be doing some volunteer work in a hospital in the occupied territories. Not glamorous stuff, just supporting the IT guy who had flown in earlier and needed an extra hand. The nature of the work meant that in the evenings my fellow Englishman and I could ooze around the hospital chatting to the various shrapnel filled Palestinians. And, cliched though it is, I've never met a friendlier bunch of people. They all, without fail, complimented me on my long eyelashes and big eyes, both features which I detest because they result in my being seen in the eyes of the world not as a macho leader of men, but more of a Bambi type. Grr. Anyway, Arabs love these eyes. "Camel eyes" they call them.

So, I settle into the hospital with my camel eyes fluttering hither and thither, and one young bullet sponge really takes a shine to them. Oh yes. Mohammed, I shall call him (name changed, naturally), loved these ridiculous eyes of mine, and the head that housed them, and the body that supported that head. Oh, and he particularly liked my arse.

Mohammed was a twenty-something lad, walking on crutches as a result of being hit in the leg with an IDF bullet when he was chucking stones one day. He was a patient at the hospital. Walking on crutches gave him a superhuman like strength in his arms, which were abominably hairy and made his resemblance to a gorilla in a fez rather striking. He made it his life's mission to grab my bottom (with a vice-like grip) as much as possible. It came to the extent that I'd have to poke my head round corners to see if he were at large before walking into a room. If he spotted me he'd give an unearthly shriek and hobble towards me like some kind of terrifying, rubbish cyborg.

I was stalked by a gay crippled terrorist.
(Sun 3rd Feb 2008, 5:02, More)

» Your first cigarette

Smoke, pills and passion thwarted
I was very religious until I was 23. That meant no smoking, no drinking, no girlfriend (when I was kissed on the cheek by a girl at university I prayed for about an hour afterwards), but worst of all, no bacon. Imagine that.

When I stopped being religious I knew that my life would be turned upside down if I went on a long-overdue binge of booze, sex and drugs. So, beyond developing a taste for beer, and meeting a lovely girlfriend, I haven't really experimented. So, to this day, I haven't smoked cigarettes and haven't tried drugs.

Apart from one day.

My girlfriend and I were at a beach party. The sun had set, but the glow from the moon and the lights on the ferry pier illuminated the beach with a soft, blue light. We were far enough away from the main stage for the distant thump of bass to blend nicely with the waves lapping on the beach, with the rustling of palm trees singing a whispering song.

I was laying on the sand, chatting with a group of Germans I had met on the ferry. The beers were kicking in beautifully, and all of us in our little group were wrapped in the perfect feeling of contentment that bathes you at that stage in the evening. As we started heading our separate ways one of the Germans offered me a cigarette, and, glowing with bonhomie and a taste for something new, I took it from him, placed it between my lips and pulled the smoke slowly past my throat, trickling it slowly backwards to prevent myself from spluttering. It was a little harsh perhaps, but the dark hit perfectly complemented the beer.

Later my girlfriend and I were standing by the shoreline, watching revellers splashing in the sea by moonlight. At that perfect moment I leaned in to kiss her, but alas, she recoiled at my smoky breath. Frustrated, I stared moodily at the palm trees.

As I was staring, a young man skipped past, beaming from ear to ear. He reminded me of Puck from a Midsummer Night's Dream. He met my eye, broadened his grin and traipsed towards me.

"Hey there! You don't look terribly chirpy! Have one of these," he says, dropping a white pill into my hand. He skipped away before I could respond.

I was at a crossroads. Should I consume a pill from a strange man at a party? Am I ready for this? What direction will my life take if I put it into my mouth?

After wrestling with my conscience for a second or two, I popped it onto my tongue, not knowing what to expect.

It was a Mentos. I got my kiss in the end.
(Mon 24th Mar 2008, 4:58, More)

» Addicted

Cadbury's Creme Eggs
It's not really fair calling this an addiction, because I am obliged to go cold turkey when Mr Cadbury turns off his egg factory in April, but by god are these things fine.

Absolutely everything about creme eggs is finely honed perfection. Everything. The purple and scarlet foil wrapper gives the egg a regal air, cladding it in colours fit for a Roman emperor. The delicate aroma of cocoa as the foil tantalisingly reveals the first glimpse of the egg's essential surface is an intoxicating scent, rather like what I image the first, bracing smell of heaven would be like. The chocolate is the perfect thickness to offer just enough resistance to teeth, before descending orgiastically into the fondant below. And the fondant... my god, is this what bees feel when they consume royal jelly? By now quivers of pleasure run through my body, and I'm already considering my next egg.

At college I was a fairly healthy lad, eating five fruit and veg a day, going for runs, rowing etc, but for some odd reason was a spot lethargic. More often than not I would doze off in lectures. However, one night my friends dared me to eat ten creme eggs in one minute. Alas, I failed miserably (four minutes fifty), but, well, ten eggs is ten eggs. Within minutes I felt the effect on my body.

That night, when going to sleep, I was tossing and turning for about an hour. If you have watched the Spiderman movie, imagine the scene where Tobey Maguire spends a restless night while developing superpowers and you will have a fair idea of what I was going through. The next thing I remember is waking up at 6:30 feeling like some kind of Olympian god. I immediately leapt out of bed and went for a refreshing sprint around the city, then woke up one of my friends for a game of squash. Soundly thrashed him. Got to my 9am lecture and took the best damn notes I have ever produced. Went for another run instead of eating lunch. Spent the afternoon in the lab, getting far purer crystals of whatever it was we were synthesising than anyone else. Played squash instead of dinner, and then went for a bit of a dance.

Come midnight I had not eaten a thing all day, so simply had a kebab. Funnily enough, the next day was rather similar.

I am now convinced that a healthy lifestyle does nothing for one's quality of life. Creme eggs are the catalyst for unlocking humankind's potential. If only they were available all year round.
(Tue 23rd Dec 2008, 2:14, More)

» My sex misconceptions

Found out a bit late
I used to be a very religious young man until I was 23. This meant I never kissed a girl, never watched porn, never masturbated, never really had any sexual experience until I was 23. It's pretty hard to grow up without learning the theory though, so I knew the basics (go down before the grand entrance, don't be startled by the hairs etc). Thankfully my girlfriend knew she was popping my cherry, so was providing helpful advice every now and then. Everything was going swimmingly.

We were bouncing around in various different positions for a couple of hours or so, but I could not orgasm. It was uncanny; I thought first-timers were supposed to be a sticky mess within a few thrusts. Anyway, she was getting tired and dry, so invited me to issue onto her lovely boobies. Reluctantly I withdrew, stripped off the condom and started the manual process while she whispered words of encouragement.

Now, I'm not proud of the following, and it might seem like malarkey, but please bear in mind that I although I knew some basic biology I had had no practical experience. Being of a religious type, I hadn't even experienced masturbation, so this was pretty much the first time I was having an orgasm.

After a few minutes of stroking, I felt fluid pressure in my erect urethra and knew that the moment of truth was close. I let the pressure build for a second or two and then released.

And urinated on my lovely lady.

It was only a teaspoon or so before I realised I was committing what might be considered in some circles a faux pas, so with some difficulty I stopped the flow.

Now, the poor girl was lying sprawled on a bed, with her new gentleman astride her and felt a few drops of liquid land on her skin. Lacking the vantage point that I had, she had no reason to think that something was amiss, so she started playing with it, and commenting on how runny it was. I didn't have the heart to disabuse her of the notion. She very kindly let me use the loo, have a snooze and a try again. Second time was better.

FYI we're still together. It's been three years.
(Wed 1st Oct 2008, 6:38, More)