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- a member for 14 years, 1 month and 16 days
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» I'm glad nobody saw me
Into the Brian Rix zone
I hate travelling on business, especially when I have to stay in shit hotels. I detest the anonymous rooms where you know the last person that stayed there wasn't enjoying themself either. Those places build up a patina of despair that mean you have to go out. So, I was sent to a London Premier Inn for the night. On arriving in my room, I realised I had to get out, and spent a pleasant evening hanging round the pubs of Putney. Home time came, and I went back to the hotel bar for a nightcap, where I spent far too long in the company of fellow travellers drinking Stella. Bad move. I eventually headed back to my room, despite the pleas of one of my fellow drinkers who wanted us to go out and find some 'girls'. I don't know what he intended to do, but if I'd have found a girl that night I'd have vomited in her lap and asked her to put me to bed.
Back in my room, I fell asleep, only to wake in the early hours bursting for a piss and thoroughly disorientated. I stumbled out of bed, and into toilet, shutting the door behind me. Imagine my surprise when I found myself bollock naked in the hotel corridor. After a few minutes of futile door-testing, I realised I was locked out. I wandered down the corridor, and the need to piss became too much so I pissed in a pot plant.( I hope no-one saw me). Which I then realised would be the ideal cover for my shameful nakedness.
Picking up the pissy pot plant, and holding it in front of me, I made my way to reception, by way of a glass walkway across the car park. I hope no-one saw me.
Arriving in reception, I was greeted with cries of "Sir, you're naked!" I growled at the receptionist a bit, and got a key off him, before scuttling back to my room through the glass walkway like a naked crayfish. I hope no-one saw me. I checked out before breakfast.
(Thu 27th Jan 2011, 23:58, More)
Into the Brian Rix zone
I hate travelling on business, especially when I have to stay in shit hotels. I detest the anonymous rooms where you know the last person that stayed there wasn't enjoying themself either. Those places build up a patina of despair that mean you have to go out. So, I was sent to a London Premier Inn for the night. On arriving in my room, I realised I had to get out, and spent a pleasant evening hanging round the pubs of Putney. Home time came, and I went back to the hotel bar for a nightcap, where I spent far too long in the company of fellow travellers drinking Stella. Bad move. I eventually headed back to my room, despite the pleas of one of my fellow drinkers who wanted us to go out and find some 'girls'. I don't know what he intended to do, but if I'd have found a girl that night I'd have vomited in her lap and asked her to put me to bed.
Back in my room, I fell asleep, only to wake in the early hours bursting for a piss and thoroughly disorientated. I stumbled out of bed, and into toilet, shutting the door behind me. Imagine my surprise when I found myself bollock naked in the hotel corridor. After a few minutes of futile door-testing, I realised I was locked out. I wandered down the corridor, and the need to piss became too much so I pissed in a pot plant.( I hope no-one saw me). Which I then realised would be the ideal cover for my shameful nakedness.
Picking up the pissy pot plant, and holding it in front of me, I made my way to reception, by way of a glass walkway across the car park. I hope no-one saw me.
Arriving in reception, I was greeted with cries of "Sir, you're naked!" I growled at the receptionist a bit, and got a key off him, before scuttling back to my room through the glass walkway like a naked crayfish. I hope no-one saw me. I checked out before breakfast.
(Thu 27th Jan 2011, 23:58, More)
» Crappy relationships
To all the girls I've loved before...
You, who pretended to be a Christian when I got too horny at age 16, thanks – I still remember the taste of you. And you who, while going out with me, was seeing the biker you eventually married – I hope you didn't get cheated on too. And you, you dear old nutter, who dumped and reclaimed me three times before I finally got wise, I hope you made something of your art and are not now working in a prison. Oh, you are? Shame. And as for you, you drunken wretch – I hope you regret nearly blinding me in an argument about whether listening to reggae is racist if you aren't black. For fuck's sake. Did you eventually get yourself a black man? I hope so, and I hope you kicked the drink. Or died. And as for you, love of my life, when you finally get over your problems (because you will) and realise you were incredibly cruel to the man who loved you more than any other for 10 years – I hope you don't regret it too much, and find someone else really nice. Me, I'm okay, and settled with a splendid woman who is probably not psychotic and hopefully appreciates the man I've learned to become through endless, wonderful love and war. Bless you all. (Sorry, I haven't invented a new term for breasts yet. Bear with me, I'm new). Cock.
(Tue 26th Oct 2010, 13:04, More)
To all the girls I've loved before...
You, who pretended to be a Christian when I got too horny at age 16, thanks – I still remember the taste of you. And you who, while going out with me, was seeing the biker you eventually married – I hope you didn't get cheated on too. And you, you dear old nutter, who dumped and reclaimed me three times before I finally got wise, I hope you made something of your art and are not now working in a prison. Oh, you are? Shame. And as for you, you drunken wretch – I hope you regret nearly blinding me in an argument about whether listening to reggae is racist if you aren't black. For fuck's sake. Did you eventually get yourself a black man? I hope so, and I hope you kicked the drink. Or died. And as for you, love of my life, when you finally get over your problems (because you will) and realise you were incredibly cruel to the man who loved you more than any other for 10 years – I hope you don't regret it too much, and find someone else really nice. Me, I'm okay, and settled with a splendid woman who is probably not psychotic and hopefully appreciates the man I've learned to become through endless, wonderful love and war. Bless you all. (Sorry, I haven't invented a new term for breasts yet. Bear with me, I'm new). Cock.
(Tue 26th Oct 2010, 13:04, More)
» Babysitters
Behind our house
in the road parallel to ours, easily reached by a short cut down our back alley, was the local sweet shop. It was a gloomy place full of treasures, where you could spend your pocket money on the penny tray and come out with immense bags of sweeties. The shop was run by two sisters who lived together above the shop. The older one was a moustachioed dowdy type, very kind but rather ugly and a bit frightening. The younger was a 70s dolly bird, long blonde hair, kinky boots, mini skirt... often to be seen in a fur coat, walking her afghan hound. Very hip, but a little odd. She was my babysitter. The only thing I can remember about her babysitting is one night, waking and going downstairs, to find her watching 'Sink The Bismark' on TV. I sat on the floor, between her legs, feeling the vinyl of her boots against my cheek, and the slight roughness and warmth where the mesh of her tights met the smoothness and cool of her boots.
Fetish? Yes, of course.
(Fri 29th Oct 2010, 0:07, More)
Behind our house
in the road parallel to ours, easily reached by a short cut down our back alley, was the local sweet shop. It was a gloomy place full of treasures, where you could spend your pocket money on the penny tray and come out with immense bags of sweeties. The shop was run by two sisters who lived together above the shop. The older one was a moustachioed dowdy type, very kind but rather ugly and a bit frightening. The younger was a 70s dolly bird, long blonde hair, kinky boots, mini skirt... often to be seen in a fur coat, walking her afghan hound. Very hip, but a little odd. She was my babysitter. The only thing I can remember about her babysitting is one night, waking and going downstairs, to find her watching 'Sink The Bismark' on TV. I sat on the floor, between her legs, feeling the vinyl of her boots against my cheek, and the slight roughness and warmth where the mesh of her tights met the smoothness and cool of her boots.
Fetish? Yes, of course.
(Fri 29th Oct 2010, 0:07, More)
» Wanking Disasters Part II
Whittling my fuck fungus to an imagined bacon-and-mayo bap
I've always been sent into a froth of salty fitfulness by colourful and creative terms for filth organs and acts of sweaty depravity. So imagine my joy when I stumbled upon a website full of over-embroidered stories of both real and imagined onanistic gymnastics. Clutching my thrashing gurnard in my feverish cunt-fist, nightly I wallop a spunk-rainbow into my faithful chlorine-mop. All this, of course, when the house is in darkness and no-one can discover me, Hawking-contorted and turning my Fireman Sam hat into David Cameron's poppers-face. Once someone nearly caught me as I was about launch a jet of cum-krill over the description of someone's ex-girlfriend's iced chest-haemorrhoids, but I think I got away with it. Sorry for the shaky typing.
(Tue 22nd Feb 2011, 10:24, More)
Whittling my fuck fungus to an imagined bacon-and-mayo bap
I've always been sent into a froth of salty fitfulness by colourful and creative terms for filth organs and acts of sweaty depravity. So imagine my joy when I stumbled upon a website full of over-embroidered stories of both real and imagined onanistic gymnastics. Clutching my thrashing gurnard in my feverish cunt-fist, nightly I wallop a spunk-rainbow into my faithful chlorine-mop. All this, of course, when the house is in darkness and no-one can discover me, Hawking-contorted and turning my Fireman Sam hat into David Cameron's poppers-face. Once someone nearly caught me as I was about launch a jet of cum-krill over the description of someone's ex-girlfriend's iced chest-haemorrhoids, but I think I got away with it. Sorry for the shaky typing.
(Tue 22nd Feb 2011, 10:24, More)