She'll do
During a dry spell, my mate Malcy the Alcy (this was the 90's, way before anyone could even spell nominative determinism) rang me. He had recently discovered the delights of internet dating. "Hey coke, I've got one for you. I've been chatting her up for ages, but she's not for me, do you want one of my rejects?" was the basic gist.

Yeah alright.

We spoke one evening, I had a bit of The The on the gramophone at the time and she could hear it in the background. She asked what it was, The The I explained. The what? she said. I died a little. I agreed to a date. In a town called Ware. Where she said? Ha fucking ha I said.

Two days later, we're in a red and white checker Italian. The walls are adorned - I shit thee not - with many pictures of Gillian Taylforth. I figure she is either a regular or the owner likes car head.

We are chatting, me and the reject. She's a big lass, wearing a leather skirt and big thigh high leather boots - for me apparently. I had said at one point I quite liked girls in heels and therefore this outfit is deemed appropriate. I smile insincerely. They are not heels, they are wedges, the least sexy of all the shoe fixtures. I do not like this evening, it's boring.

She is talking, I am watching. Then it happens.

She just stops. She freezes. Cutlery held still, mouth still in the shape of saying the word "thunder". I am confused. She has frozen solid. I look around and she doesn't move. Her eyes are dead. She has crashed, locked up, died maybe??

And just when I was about to call for help, "...nder and lightening was mental." - she resumes as if someone just released the pause button.

She is is fully 30 seconds unmoving and it takes me a further 30 to realise she hasn't even noticed.

My weirdedoutness must be obvious. She hesitates, 'oh did I just freeze?'. I nod. 'Yeah I do that. Weird huh. Do you want to go back to mine. We can listen to The The, I own everything they've ever done.' She insists on paying. I am a gentleman 99.999% of the time. I decide this to be a 0.001% moment. She pays. I glance back at the Gillian Taylforth gallery as I'm dragged away by the hand.

In the flat, I note the stack of still shrink wrapped The The CD's and VHS cassettes of "The The: Infected". I love The The but maybe not any more. I am feeling the edges of worry. Or a future involving kitchen knives and threats.

I sit down and she gets me a beer. She goes to the toilet and is there for a while. I hear nothing, thank god. She comes back in the lounge, sans boots. She sits crosslegged in front of me. Her leather skirt is short. She is not wearing any underwear and I can see labia minora. For a millisecond I am tempted.

I weigh it up. Its too easy. I could just shoot and run. She knows my mobile number. She doesn't know where I live or even my surname. I could probably do this and then leave and never come back. I may survive the night. I don't think she will eat me. She doesn't have cats. The house is clean. No one will know. She'll know. She'll call me tomorrow. The day after, every day. This wont go well. I am better than this. I'm on a dry spell. Every hole's a goal. I could just leave now and make some excuse. It really fucking raining. I can actually see fanny and its been a while. My penis is not feeling it. Its the least sexy I have ever felt. She's a low level stalker with issues and fakes locking up in restaurants. She works in a bank. She pretends to like bands that I like to get me into bed. Shit.

I lie about something and leave. I call Malcy and call him a cunt to his answerphone. There's no way he's conscious at this time.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Fri 18 Oct 2013, 19:47, 10 replies)

we met in a Boots
I asked her if this cream would help my genital warts. she said she'd ask her teacher the next day. She was my ideal woman, hair like ripe avocados, and an anus that could hold a beach umberella in a gale. I knew that a woman like that would have to be romanced, so I asked her if she'd like to have my fuck missile explode in her ham silo. She said she wasn't into star wars, but she'd give me a titwank for an oyster card.
As soon as we got in the door she had her hand down my pants. I had to walk back and force her to drop my wallet. She asked me if I had ever made love to the Bolero, I said I preferred Dale's Supermarket Sweep. She was like a gymnast in bed. Fourteen. We started with a rusty trombone, then a cleveland steamer, and finally a kidderminster shagpiledriver that dislocated my wrist. She asked me to treat her mean so I told her she had the dress sense of a bosnian refugee. I gave her multiple organisms and she made me sleep in the wet spot. She touched me in places no woman had touched me before, like my duodenum. Sometimes, in some situations, I'm instantly transported back to that night, such as when I see a swan choking to death on mayonaisse
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Wed 23 Oct 2013, 6:20, 14 replies)

Royal Ballet. Police escort. Not ideal.
I moved to Australia a couple of years back from London and met what I thought was a nice girl, if a little feisty after a few drinks, (for feisty, read abusive, spiteful, and aggressive). Anyway, deciding to take this paragon of princessly charms back to the UK to meet the folks seemed like a good idea, and given that she and my 65 year old mother both like ballet I invested in the best seats money could buy at The Royal Opera House in Covent Garden where the Royal Ballet were performing Swan Lake. Something of a classic, you'd agree.

Bear in mind this was 4 days after she'd met the family (she got drunk at my Nan's 90th and lied that my sister and niece were saying stuff about me behind my back - always likely to make her popular with the relatives as obviously I'd checked in surprise as we're very tight as a family), so I'd assumed she'd behave herself for this event.

Sizeable fail on my part.

So, a very slowly consumed 2 glasses of champagne each were imbibed by all parties pre theatre along with some nibbles in Covent Garden, and all was fine until the interval, at which point the girlfriend offered to go get the drinks.

She took her time so eventually I went to look for her and found her at the bar, in theory just getting served. Odd I thought, but maybe the queues were that bad. Anyway, she'd bought a champagne and a G&T for mum. The bell went for the next act along with a reminder that dinks couldn't be taken into the auditorium, so she necked them both. (I found out later she'd also necked shots of neat vodka and at least one other glass of champagne before me finding her.)

We got back upstairs and during the second act it got interesting. Loud talking in the silence of all the well to do people around us trying to watch the ballet, followed by telling said patrons to "fuck off" when they asked her to be quiet, followed by having a go at me for random items not related to that evening, followed by semi shouting at me for not defending her against the people asking her to please stop the noise. I told her to pipe down as she was ruining it for everyone, and said we could discuss afterwards, but that apparently wasn't acceptable - cue a fresh torrent of abuse followed by her storming out. Exactly what you want with your pensioner mum sat next to you absolutely mortified at the monstrosity her son has bought home with him.

Anyway, I had no intention of following her so sat back to try and relax through the performance, despite one very posh lady coming over at the next interval asking me very politely not to let "that lady" back in.

I'd relaxed slightly by the end of the show and was walking down the stairs when approached by an usher who enquired as to whether I was with the lady in the purple dress. With a due sense of dread I confirmed that I was, to then be told, "she's outside with the police sir, could you please follow me?"

What it seems happened was that the drunken psycho had gone for another cheeky drink to drown her sorrows (as you do), then become quite upset, and verbally abusing those who asked if se was ok. Then followed throwing pieces of fruit at random people, attempting to play the piano in the opera house bar, and I quote, "harassing a few groups of customers".

When asked to leave she started pushing the staff member who spoke to her, then took a swing at the manager when he was called to deal with the situation. The police were subsequently called and when they arrived she got physical (not like that you perverts) with one of the coppers. She'd also for some reason told them I was her husband too, which confused things even more.

Myself and mum then had to take her home despite her alternating between abuse and being upset because I wouldn't hold her hand or give her a cuddle. Personally I'd have preferred it if they'd locked her up for the night, but hey ho...

Sadly the opera house manager didn't press charges, and the lovely young lady didn't remember her behaviour in the morning.

She was however both surprised and upset that I wasn't as enthusiastic as I might have been about looking at engagement rings that weekend, and she remains to date, the only person I'm aware of that's been physically removed from The Royal Opera House by the police.

So basically a terrible date and not quite the first impression I wanted my mum to have of the girl I was shacked up with...

Epilogue:
That particular relationship finally ended a couple of months later (we were living together before the UK trip) when she broke her hand hitting me and I walked out. There was some stalking (by her), and a fake pregnancy (announced on facebook), general abuse and threats, putting all my financial documents such as mortgage etc in a skip outside the house, and threats of calling the police to tell them I'd been hitting her etc (she'd already told her family that but they didn't believe her), but luckily Ii survived to tell the tale!

Lesson(s) learned, in no small way. Finally!


(Needless to say from the above that she was stunning and the sex was amazing - blatantly why I put up with her for so long. :-/)
(Isaac Hunt., Wed 23 Oct 2013, 0:37, 17 replies)

Shit meself in Shanghai
Arrived in Shangers for job interview, was booked into a hotel by the firm, with another applicant, a Canadian ex-figure skater, reasonably pretty but killer body. She was staying in the room directly above me in one of those really narrow hotels that are common in SEAsia. We get through the day, and head back to hotel, I'm thinking 'yeah, gonna have a crack at that'. We had lunch together, cheap Kung Pao Chicken, tasty...
Suggest we go out for a walk around the Bund, have a bite to eat, work my charm, get her back to the hotel and do the do. She was terminally boring, everything we saw had to immediately be compared to Canada... the amount of times I heard '... well, in Canada...' was driving me nuts. But this made me even more determined to get something out of the evening.
We get back to the hotel area, and a tiny little rumble starts in my guts, ooh, a tad uncomfortable, but nothing that bad...
Worth noting at this point what I was wearing, dark blue short sleeved shirt, crisp white linen shorts...
we get to within 50 meters of the hotel, she's giving it loads of body contact, I'm in! but damn, my stomach is still rumbling, i need to get this fart out before we end up in a confined space, one little push should do it...
WHOOOOOSH! Out of my arse comes a jet of scalding hot brown liquid, I'm in the middle of the street with shit running down my legs... distract her! Managed to make some weird game of walking behind her, pushing her ahead of me with my hands on her shoulders.. we get to the hotel, get the key, nobody has smelled anything, but the bellboy hasnoticed my now two tone shorts... shove her into the lift, pretend i forgot something and let the doors close before I can get in, sprint up the stairs, beating the lift, burst into room, strip fully naked, shorts and boxers into bathroom bin, bin out on window ledge, 20 second hosedown in the shower, and she's banging on my door, puzzled...
Let her in the room, she sprawls on the bed while i put some tunes on the laptop.. and she starts banging on about Canada again.
That was the last straw... I just want to get the sex over with and fall asleep, so I jump on her and rush through some rudimentery foreplay, just get the tip in when the door starts being knocked on, and they won't give up... get out of bed to find the bellboy wanting to return the bin full of shitty clothes that had fallen from the window ledge down in front of the hotel entrance...
Now it stank of shit. We both agreed that we were actually really, really tired and should just maybe go back to sleep in our own rooms.
TL;DR Shit myself in the street, still nearly got a shag.
(Ol' Ginger Bastard a role model for the children, Fri 18 Oct 2013, 13:02, 11 replies)

About eight years ago I met a girl in a nightclub.
She was attractive, sweet, funny and as such numbers were exchanged and arrangements subsequently made to meet in a quiet city centre pub the next day and get to know each other.

We met, sat down on one of those big comfy sofas in a quiet part of the bar with our drinks and started to talk. A few minutes into conversation she started to tell me about her childhood and how she spent every evening after school with her uncle, who would abuse her sexually. She said that he took her virginity at the age of five and the abuse went on until the day before she turned thirteen, on this occasion her uncle said that he would give her a special treat to welcome her to her teens and proceed to anally rape her. He told her that tomorrow he would consider her to be spoiled goods and would no longer have anything to do with her. Her parents believed her to be responsible enough to look after herself at this age and no longer required her uncles 'services'.

I have omitted a lot of detail, but you get the general idea of what was said. She seemed upset but said that I seemed very trustworthy and understanding, and was glad that this was off her chest.

The date had gone wrong and was over moments later, when she hung her head a little in reflection and noticed that I had an erection and pre-cum was soaking through my jeans.
( Muns, Tue 22 Oct 2013, 16:20, 7 replies)

Live Porn, Mum and a Duck
I choose to start my story now.

It wasn’t the first time I had taken her out, we had been hanging around together a fair bit, had done the getting really drunk together thing, done the danced all night in a crowded night club like we where the only people in the room bit, had a lovely dirty weekend away and where just generally getting on really well.
It was time! Time for her to meet my folks and start down the transition from cool young things having a great time together to a long-term exclusive relationship. And as it would happen my Mum called me to let me know my uncle was coming to visit from Perth (in Western Australia) with my Aunty for a weekend and they where organizing some theatre tickets and would I like to come along.

“Better get me two tickets”, I said, “I’ve got someone I would like you to meet”.

The night rolled around and we all agreed to meet at a pub close to the theatre for a couple of pre-show drinks. The group had grown to include my other Aunty (Mum’s younger sister) and her husband who had arranged the tickets as well as my Mum’s slightly eccentric semi religious (read bat shit mental religious nutter) friend.

My girl friend was a pretty tolerant easygoing person but the one thing that did piss her off was people who ran late and didn’t let you know. My mum always runs late and when it comes to the rest of her family, she seems military punctual.

We (the girl and I) arrived at the appointed pub at the appointed hour and had a drink while we waited. I had given her heads up that the rest of the group would probably be late and she didn’t let it worry her. Anyway, as the hour ticks by, we had a few drinks and continued to wait and after 45 minutes had passed my Mum showed up and over the next 40 minutes the others dribbled in leaving us 5 minutes to scurry to the theatre and our seats.

The show we where seeing was called “PERFORMANCE ARTIST” by Annie Sprinkles. The name Annie Sprinkles rang a bell but, I couldn’t quite place it or why. The lights dimmed and the show started. It was a one-woman show, basically a monologue with photo’s and pictures on slides that where displayed on a big screen over the stage. It opened when the “one-woman” uttered the immortal words, “My first name was Frieda Grey” (I can’t actually remember what her first name was but, that’ll do for now), “Frieda was an introverted mousey person who liked to stay at home and didn’t have sex with anybody” and she showed a photo of a rather homely looking teenage girl type person.

“I decided I didn’t like Frieda” a few more family photo’s of a fairly normal reserved mid-west American family, with Frieda in all of the shots. “So I became Annie” followed by the full gutted rabbit wide on twat shot, definitely NSFW, “and she had sex with everyone” and from there on the show went downhill, with a rolling narrative of her friends from the 1970’s Californian porn scene (yes it was that Annie Sprinkles) with a recurring theme of what awesome happy life filled party people they had been until they died of AIDS, accompanied by a series of photo’s (it felt like 1000’s of them) of Annie and the mentioned friends engaged in one on one regular sex, two on one advanced rutting , three on one it’s getting silly porking, how fricken many where in that one screwing, 2 cocks in one Annie arse, 4 cocks cumming on her face, some dirty bastard shitting on her tits and rubbing it on her face and then some shots of stuff they won’t let you show on illegal Cambodian internet sites. People where going white around us, the sound of retching was happening, if her intent had been to shock people, she had achieved it and passed it like Ferrari at full speed passing two old men in a Dobbin the horse suit pulling a fully laden cement truck up a steep hill.

And I was seeing all of this, in the company of my mum, and my Aunties and my new girl friend.

Then Annie told us her third name “Sunny Moonlight Radiance” or some such hippie bullshit, and apparently Sunny Moonlight Radiance only has sex with women. I near dived under my seat at that point.
What ever the first part of Sunny Moonlight Radiance went on about I don’t remember exactly but it did involve talk of lesbians and dildos and crumpet munching and the next part is still very clear in my mind. The show culminated with Frieda/Annie/Sunny stripped naked on stage, painting her face and body with her menstrual blood, which she had conveniently saved in a jar, and handing out home made maracas made from two plastic coffee cups sticky taped together with rice inside to the audience for us to shake to a hypnotic rhythm while she swayed and gyrated to an almost hands free screaming orgasm on stage, she then invited those wished to come forward and bathe in the ambiance of her orgasm and the show came to an end.

Looking around, my Mum, had eye’s like saucers, my Aunty who arranged the tickets was making excuses that she thought it was a show about a painter and had no idea, my Uncle (who was actually a Doctor) was looking positively ill and my other Aunty and Uncle, where missing in action. Apparently, my Aunty who had come across from Perth couldn’t take anymore at one stage during the show and had run from the room and my Uncle (not her hubby but, married to the one who bought the tickets) had followed her out to make sure she was ok (aka ran like a frightened child). My girl friend was seeing the funny side of things and was laughing that she couldn’t believe I had to sit through that with my Mum and was proud of me for not running from the room also.

To end the night, we decided to grab a late night super in China Town. My Uncle’s favorite Chinese restaurant was in walking distance, so we headed in and got a big table. To make things easy, he ordered a Peking Duck for the table as it is an easy to share type of meal. My new girl friend piped up, that she didn’t eat duck. This wasn’t for any health or taste reason. It was on moral grounds, she had had a pet duck as a child, that she loved very much and didn’t want to eat them. But, she didn’t object to others eating duck and wasn’t that hungry so would wait for the main course.

The Duck skin in pancakes, with the shallots, cucumber and Hoisin sauce was delicious and when the San Choy Bou came out, we all tucked in, including the girl friend. What she hadn’t realized was that the San Choy Bou was made using the duck meat (the first course only used the skin). It was only after she had stated how tasty she found it, that my Uncle suggested she might have to revise her moratorium on eating duck.

And thus, the date was ruined when my family tricked my new girlfriend into eating duck meat.


TLDR: Introduces new girl friend to mum, makes her watch live porn and force feeds her duck
(bad_advice QOTW survivor from the first trollocost!, Mon 21 Oct 2013, 5:17, 4 replies)

Mrs Spimf cant do drugs (of course its a pea)
not at all, she’s tried coke a few times and it always went like this...
"Want some of this coke baby?"
"No I cant, I cant, I really cant"
"Sure?"
"Well maybe just a wee bit"
Snnnnnnnnnnnnnnort!
FFW 6 hours... and we have a raging Hoover nosed maniac with one eye going to the shops and the other one coming back with the change - demanding more sex, coke,porn,sex,coke,porn - you get the picture. She even got so off her face on a bottle of poppers at T in the Park she had to be carried a good mile or so back to the bloody tent. But that's just the preamble...

A good few years back we went to a really nice hotel in a wee fishing village in Scotland - Portpatrick to be precise. With some time to kill before dinner, lolling around in our room, I decide to roll a joint.
"Want to try some hash babes"
"No I can't smoke"
"You can eat it though"
"Hmmm? Ok - not much though!"

A small piece of hash the size of a pea is consumed then we took the dogs for a walk along the beach. Drugs? No effect. An hour later there we are in the rather posh hotel bar, Mrs Spimf in a LBD looking leggy, demure and pretty damn hot.
"Would you like a drink before dinner darling”?
"Yes, sherry please"

Now I don’t know what sort of fucked up constitution my Mrs has but it would seem a tiny speck of cannabis can lie dormant in her tumblyboos until one small sherry is sloshed down there, then it begins...
Giggling - fair enough
Talking Pish - fair enough
Sudden loss of short term memory resulting is said pish being repeated on loop - fair enough
Attempt to get off bar stool and go to the loo resulting in KO style collapse in the middle of the room - erm no.

To make matters even better she had landed smack on the floor at the owner’s feet who was chatting with her daughter. Soon revived and seemingly now ok (ish) while rubbing a slight bump on her head, Mrs Spimf (brilliantly) explains to the hotel owner she might have had an adverse reaction to some prescription medicine. Owner promptly offers to call a doctor; she even offered to act as a witness in the lawsuit she had conjured from nowhere that was going to 'ruin' the 'idiot' doctor that would prescribe such powerful drugs without proper warning. Suddenly Mrs Spimf is fine and dandy again so we decide to proceed with dinner. She's now hungry - celle surprise! A sip of wine and a nibble at her starter and she’s off again. Talking pish, swaying about, stuck on a Groundhog Day loop - the lot!

Tits.

Quietly, I ask the waiter if he could sent the rest of the food up to the room and try to make as dignified an exit as one can with Ken Fucking Dodd in a cocktail dress waving and belming to a room full of bemused diners. So there we are back in the room - immediately Mrs Spimf strips naked. No idea why, the only thing I was intending eating at that point was my bloody steak, which was supposedly on its way up.
Knock knock - "room service"
"Come in" coos my idiot bloody wife, naked as a Tory MP in a boys dormitory.
The poor bloke trundles in with a splendid tray of delights, complete with comedy silver dome things on them. Give him his due he barely batted an eyelid as I hastily tried to cover my mad as a bat butt naked wife. He left with a smirk and large tip. After ten minutes of watching my wife struggling to use cutlery (she seemed to be knitting an imaginary scarf from invisible wool) I suggested at that point she might well be better in bed. So in she pops.
Thank. Fuck! Peace at last. Just as I finish my steak the convulsions start. Yes fucking convulsions.

Su-fucking-perb.

So there she is: Portpatrick's answer to Jon Belushi writhing around in bed like Linda Blair's epileptic understudy. After some 'discussion' Mrs Spimf decides it is in fact...
"Nothing to do with the drugs - it must have been when I hit my head"
She then panics - decides she has a 'brain clot' from her tumble earlier (I had a few choice words on that one). Nevertheless Mrs Spimf demands a doctor be summoned.
"Head injuries must be investigated!"

So there I am - no choice. I called the owner and asked if she could discreetly request a local doctor give us a quick call just to reassure my idiot wife she is not destined to spend the remainder of her days communicating with one eyebrow. Ten minutes later an ambulance with full blues and twos rocks up.

Fuck.

All too soon the paramedics enter the room, along with the bloody owner and her daughter as well for good measure. After I managed to tactfully ask them to get the fuck out I had a quite word with the paramedic.
"Don’t think its the bump to the head mate" (looks around conspiratorially) "she's actually eaten a little bit of cannabis"
Paramedic looks confused,
"How much"
"Erm maybe enough for two fairly miserly joints"
Paramedic scratches head.
"What’s she doing eating it - your supposed to smoke it, at least that's what I do (winks), having said that if she's had a bump to the head we should maybe take her in for observation"

Tits.

So they go to lift the pale and shaking Mrs Spimf out of bed
"Wait!"
"She’s naked"
"Oh right, fine where are her clothes"
I gather up the frilly black undies, stockings heels and LBD and realise the chances of getting her dressed without more drama were, to even the most optimistic observer, bugger all.
"Fuck it, wrap her up in the duvet, I’ll take the clothes with me"
And so they did. Then popped her on a little chair with wheels affair and lifted her up....
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" cries my lunatic wife - "I'M SCARED OF HEIGHTS!!!!"
"Erm your only about 6 inches off the floor love"
"OH? ...Well it felt a lot higher"
*facepalms*

So we process through the hotel lobby - the entire staff and guests it would seem had now lined up to see the drama unfolding with 'my lovely wife' now back on a high waving like a mong on a day trip to a window factory.
Kill me now, please God - end this now.
So we sat in the ambulance - it was at least 40 minutes to the nearest A&E. Mrs Spimf cracking jokes all the way. Me sitting there with a face like thunder. They treated Mrs Spimf and I like we had been up all night smearing methadone on a baby, they grilled me on what she had 'actually taken' then eventually they let us home at around 3 am. So on top of the cost of the fancy hotel, meal and a ruined LBD, the taxi back to the hotel cost nearly 50 quid - about 15 years ago.
I don't allow my wife drugs anymore. Muppet.
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Fri 18 Oct 2013, 13:18, 4 replies)

Online dating
So I have tried it, and so have lots of my friends.

I thought it seemed like a good idea at the time, at a time of singleness.

I had a couple of dates with eligible men, as you do. One in particular who tickled my fancy and who seemed like the kind of bloke I would get on with. He had a beard and was ginger so he was already ahead in the sexy stakes.
How WRONG could a girl be?
He was the most boring man I had ever met, all he did was 'umm and arrr' while staring at my tits. It's not like I had them out for the world to see, but it's hard to avoid them, but still. No effort at all to get on, so I made my excuses and left. Very quickly. It was a shame really as I was all fired up too.
Thankfully however I made it home to my flatmate who was still awake even at a very late hour.
She had a similar night, a blind date gone wrong, so we sat and chatted about it for a while.
One bottle of wine turned into 3 and we got to talking about what we wanted out of a date. We both agreed that we didn't want anything serious, just a whole lot of fun. Which led us onto talking about our previous sexual experiences.
Turns out, we had both had sex with other women, which I had NO idea about before we moved in together. I must admit it excited me, she was beautiful and had the most amazing body.
After a few hours and what turned into flirting, we found ourselves close, so close, and started to kiss.
God, she felt so good, her soft warm lips against mine. Her tits brushing against my hard nipples, I had all but forget my date earlier in the evening.
As she reached down to slide her fingers inside me, I whispered in her beautiful soft ear 'Fuck off you internet pervert, keep imagining this happens in real life after the awful bad date you just subjected a woman to. I have no doubt this is the closest you will ever get to a women, never mind 2, getting their clothes off in real life. Ever. Yeah? I'm looking at you, yeah you'
( Herb Alpert's Taxi Driver I have very beautiful lips, Fri 18 Oct 2013, 0:52, 10 replies)

I was on a date last night... Had some trouble. My cock's just too big. Look, I wrote a poem about it:
My date said to me last night "hey you, come here and poke us"
I said "I can’t, because I’m hung - like a fucking diplodocus"
"Yes, I know" she said "but please stop being such a bore"
I yelled out "but my cock's the size of an entire dinosaur!"

She saw it then, and gasped in shock and wonder and surprise,
When she noticed my cock had leviathanic size,
I tried to shag this one girl once, but knackered both her thighs in,
And that’s because my massive cock, it bends 'round the horizon.

She said "if you're sticking that in me, I need to get quite pissed"
She couldn’t see my bell-end, it had vanished in the mist
She licked right up and down my cock, a bit like Sally Gunnell
But that didn't work, and so I fucked the Dartford Tunnel.

She tried to stick it in her, and she worked it inch by inch in,
My dick was hardly even wet when her cunt started pinching,
And that was odd, because she' got a fanny like a welly
I couldn't stick it in with half a ton of K Y Jelly.

She said "I don't know what to do!" and shrugged and gave a cough
"You really need an Elder God to come and suck you off!"
And so I left her, walked outside, and got a round of golf in,
It’s probably for the best, ‘cos I’ve got sperm the size of dolphins.
(SigourneysBeaver took off and nuked the entire site from orbit on, Wed 23 Oct 2013, 9:26, 19 replies)

Horsey
I'd just started seeing a rather fun woman, and we were still in those low-numbered dates when you are discovering all the different ways you can fit your bodies together. After a busy night we'd been woken by the early morning sun streaming into her flat, and it seemed a shame to simply go back to sleep. So off we went again.

Somewhat unusually, we happened to be in the missionary, with (luckily) a sheet draped over us, when her four-year-old daughter ran into the room. Seeing me on top of her mother didn't phase her; in fact she jumped up on top of me and giggled "Let's play horsey!"

So I'm buried up to the maker's plate in the mother, while the daughter is sitting on my back making gee-up noises. I reflect that if I make any kind of movement, I'm probably committing a serious nonce offence.

Thankfully we manage to disengage without causing irreparable trauma to the little one. I then have to carry her around the room for a few circuits, with my whelk-shrivelled cock attempting to climb back into my body, while the mother sits in the corner wrapped in a duvet, pissing herself laughing.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Mon 21 Oct 2013, 12:08, 4 replies)

My first ever snog
During the school disco at the end of 1st year of 'big school' Heather told my mate Steve that Anna had said that Rachel wanted to snog me. Steve told Warren who told me, and I passed back the message that it was ok and I'd see her in the park opposite after the disco. Then I got a message back to say that she'd only come if her mate Sue could come too, but Sue wanted to snog Richie, so he had to be there as well.

After a lot of messages passed back and forth it was eventually the end of the disco and I went to the park with Richie, and sure enough there were Rachel and Sue. We stood under some trees smirking at each other, wondering who would make the first move. Eventually Rachel got fed up, marched over to me and mashed her lips against mine then grabbed Sue and stormed off. Richie stood staring at me. "Cor, what was it like?" he asked. Before I could answer, Ivan, who had been spying on us, fell out of the tree with a yell.

Next morning the story was around the whole school and people were teasing Rachel so badly that she hid in the store cupboard during Home Economics and cried. My mates told me I should go and console her " 'cos she might let you feel her tits". So I went into the cupboard, but she told me to piss off and kicked me in the goolies.

Not a great date.
(Smale is stuffed, Fri 18 Oct 2013, 10:22, 6 replies)

Some years ago, a girl named Sandra and I went to watch Trainspotting at the cinema.
It was all going swimmingly. We were the only people in the theatre to laugh when Spud said the prospect of walking across the moorland was not "natural" . I whisked Sandra off to sticky Camden dive The Underworld for some late drinks and intimate chat, perhaps an exchange of fluids.

A couple of watered-down Carlsbergs later, who should walk in but Green Day singer Billy Joe Armstrong and a small entourage. Sandra went over seeking his autograph, but instead got invited to a party, for which they left immediately without so much as a nod in my direction, leaving me with only my "lager" for company.

Billy Joe Armstrong is very short.
(wellweapon, Tue 22 Oct 2013, 10:05, 7 replies)

I had been talking to her online for few weeks
and then we finally arranged to meet up. I invited her over for dinner. I don't think my opening line came across as romantic as I had expected.
"Hang about, you're not the girl in your profile picture I've been wanking over!"
"No you nasty cunt, that's my mate. But you can fuck off, I'm off"
"Don't go, "I pleaded, "I'll get you a drink while you ask your mate to join us. I've got a short video I want to show you, and I have this old cup that was here when I moved in."
"Fuck you!" she suggested and stormed out. I ran to the door and called after her as she was going out the gate.
"What about if you motorboat my bollocks for a Bacardi Breezer and a scotch egg?", but she was gone.
Ah well, I have a backup date who'll be here in an hour. Plenty more fish in the sea. Must remember not to tell them that's what they smell like - the last one smelt like a condemned harbour. Still, the cat liked her anyway.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Mon 21 Oct 2013, 9:47, 13 replies)

IBIZA.. Havvin it Laaaarge..
Sometime near to 1994, i forget exactly, the local football team I was kind of playing for - basically, they were a good team, won everything and strutted about with the kind of gusto that confident, good looking young men strut when they're good at something - and I say kind of playing for, because I was the player who was chuffed to bits just have been asked to sign on for the team in the first place and regardless that I then spent most of my Sunday mornings dressed in the team playing strip, overladen with a tracksuit and standing on the touchline. I was happy enough though as the kit barely fit my overweight-for-my-age somewhat wholesome physique and I say "happy", until on one occasion I came on as a substitute and then got substituted myself some 15 mins later. That kind of player. Anyway, I digress. But you get the point.

We won the league, we won the cup, we gained promotion to the top tier of local football and all in all had a jolly good season. At this point you may, of course again substitute the word 'we' in the previous sentence to that of 'they'. Talk then was of a end-of-season team holiday to the paradise holiday island of Ibiza and their famed nightclubs of Pasha and Amnesia where 24hr party people hang out. Not being someone who frequented nightclubs even back at home, feeling like a fish out of water every time I ventured near a place, that part of the holiday didnt appeal to me, but being included in the tour party guest list did - so I signed up.

Anyway, to Ibiza we went and it was pretty much everything it was acclaimed for. Days were spent drinking by the pool and evenings were a mix of untucked pressed shirts, too much cologne and a floppy haired group swagger into town - everyone trying their best to walk like Liam Gallagher (*sidenote - the assh*le).

Within at most a day or so, the goal tally (you can read between the lines here as to what i mean) stood at an impressive, albeit unaudited, 15 - 0. Group reminiscences of the previous nights escapades were constantly enjoyed the following day and as I laid low listening to The Stone Roses on my walkman (a band I didnt even like) I hoped that none would mention my lack of contribution to the overall team score.

Anyway, we booked up with the local rep to go to a new thing at that time which was a foam party at one of the local clubs, so as usual we trotted along and before you could say "Were havin it laaaaarge" for the 10 billionth time, the place was up to your neck in foam and to my surprise, I found myself dancing. Not only dancing but frolicking (yeah, I even used that word at the time when I was 19, go figure) with, as even my mates lauded, "a faaackin hot blonde". One Bez from the Happy Mondays dance later, I found myself playing school-disco-style tongue tennis with her, hands fondling about her person and glowing with a sense of enormous pride at this unexpected boost to my team cred. Jackpot. New found confidence came I think in the sense that my head was the only goods on show and so this poor unfortunate had somehow been sold short and perhaps wouldn't be engaging in my company if our embrace had been in an otherwise foam-less environment, who knows.

So, anyway.... What was the original question again? Ah yes, embarrassing dates.

Following day, my place on the row of sun loungers had become more inclusive within the group, no longer was I the guy on the end having random objects constantly thrown at me without warning and without obvious assailant, now I was the guy they all wanted to hear from. "Mate, she was faackin hot, did you shag her?" came the questions. To which I (I obviously hadnt, and had in fact gone for a piss, came back to see she had gone and then skulked my way back to my cell on the premise that if I wasnt there and she wasnt there, perhaps the very questions I was now being asked, would be asked the following day), with my assumptions now correct and my well rehearsed response firmly in place I replied, in my very best Mockney footy accent (which everyone had somehow adopted, even though we were all from Hampshire), was "Mate, if you must know, I f*cked her in your bed and jizzed on your pillow?" - Cue ensuing group laughter and my arrival. I really had arrived.

Then she appeared, loudly announced to us by one of my mates as "There's your bird from last night". "Oh no", thought I. And she drew closer along the poolside I, and the others, could see that she had something unusual in the way she walked. Commonly known as having an extreme case of 'club foot' I believe its called. And with discretion not being a forte within my compadres, another declared "look, shes a f*ckin mong". Cue more extreme laughter, rolling about and me having my hair and head manhandled.

Then, as she and her friends drew alongside us, another questioned, "Here love, has he got a small dick?". "Him" says she, "how would I know? I wouldnt shag that fat f*ck if he wasn't such a fat f*ck. I mean, LOOK AT HIM!". Cue hysterical laughter bordering on fever pitch, not just from my mates, but also her mates, families on holiday, the waiter collecting glasses and a couple on an overlooking balcony above. And if I'm honest, it wasn't the fat f*ck bit that upset me at the time, for that part was blatantly obvious, I think it was more the "LOOK AT HIM" bit, which she shouted at me with some real intent that really stuck in my windpipe. A windpipe which by now was closing by the second.

Probably a good 20 minutes then went by before the laughter had finally receded to something resembling just a bunch of deep long sighs, the kind you get when you've laughed so much that there's nothing left to give. And as I glanced about the poolside, one elderly gent had even removed his glasses so as to clean the lense, after he'd been laughing so much. Then another of the group piped in, "mate, not only did you NOT shag her, but you also got turned down by f*cking crippled mong"... She heard this, which I wasn't overly disappointed with, given her previous outburst, but nevertheless and despite the general exhaustion being felt around the pool, somehow this comment allowed everyone to enjoy the moment yet again for another 10 minutes. Then they threw me in the pool, together with my walkman still attached, just to cheer me up.

Anyway, thanks for listening, I think Ive turned a corner in my therapy and can finally close this particular nasty chapter in my life - despite the fact that my friends still constantly reminded of the incident, some nigh on 20yrs later.
(drinkingteddy, Fri 18 Oct 2013, 14:41, 27 replies)

yet another date distaster pea - yes im quite the dashing blade

When I was a young blade, as much as I was a cheeky wee chap I was often none too clever at approaching girls. Unfortunately my best attempt at signalling my amorous intent was to stare at the object of my desire with the sort of thousand-yard stare psychiatric nurses dread. (I have since realised women don’t like this very much). So there we are down the favourite club, with my best mate, drinking beer and scanning the electric savannah – looking for the weak the young and the vulnerable.

And then I saw her.
Slender, beautiful, short blonde hair, high cheekbones flawless skin and perfect, perky little breasts bobbing around under a loose fitting shiny halter-top affair (late eighties). She also had the FINEST ASS I HAVE EVER SEEN. By now my eyes were swirling like that bloody snake in jungle book as she danced and laughed with her friends (mere fuzzy blobs in my peripheral vision). Smitten is not the word. The psychotic Bush Baby stare must have worked that night as lo and behold, the beautiful slender creature popped up beside me as if from nowhere (the shopkeeper in Mr Ben never looked anywhere near as good). With a lascivious look and sparkling blue eyes she chirped,
“So do you NEVER ask a girl to dance?”

Boing!
After an evening of snogging, groping, dancing, drinking then repeat, all too soon it was time to leave the club. By this time my confidence was growing as quickly as my pants seemed to be shrinking. I suggested her place; some coyish ‘no I can’t – really I can’t’ protests were quickly swept aside with my new found rakish charm. So we bundle out of a cab still a-gropin an' a-snoggin. Giggling as we get to her front door.

"SHHHH!" She tells me.

Oh, righto! I think, flatmate(s) asleep probably. The house is quiet and in darkness. We head straight to the bedroom, have a long deep kiss (I can make out little in the gloom) then she pops the bedside lamp on.

Fuck. Me.
Walls plastered with pictures of ponies, (apparently horse riding was responsible for the great ass) pictures of boy bands unknown, more ponies, but the clincher – a single bed covered in teddies, pandas, fluffy fucking camels you name it.

"Erm. How old did you say you were?"

“17” she assures me, pawing at my jeans.

At this time I was only 18 or 19 myself so thought, fair enough. It is only now with the benefit of years I regret not asking her to pop the school uniform on that was undoubtedly still in the wardrobe. So we go at it with the vigour gifted only to the young. Then sleep. Very early in the morning we wake and enjoy another blissful shag in a bed too small for two. Breathless, tired and still fuzzy from the previous night’s excesses I start to drift off. Suddenly I was awoken with a deep dig in the ribs.
“Quick! Hide! Get under the duvet" she hissed.
Before I could even ask I hear the bedroom door opening. A voice deeper than Bluto with laryngitis boomed,

“Mornin'! I’m going for the papers and some rolls, you want anything?”

FUCK. FUCK. FUCK! Where are my clothes? Can he see my shoes lying on the floor? Does he have a gun? Then as if it could get no worse comes the fateful line…

“Who’s that?”

So there I am cowering under the duvet, in a single bed with some 17 - year olds father enquiring whom I might be. Cool as a frozen cucumber my hot, naked little minx replied,

“Tracy”

“Morning Tracy, you want anything from the shops love?”

(I may have let out a small whimper at this point)

“She’s still asleep Dad – hammered last night."

“Fair enough” and with that Glasgow’s answer to Barry White lumbered off.
Once I got my heart rate back down to mere humming bird levels, frantically I start looking for my clothes.

“What’s the rush – he’ll be at least half an hour?”

She was up for it again! I wish I could tell you my dear B3tards that I was cool and suave enough to attempt another but I think I was dressed and on the street within 60 seconds.

!
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Fri 18 Oct 2013, 13:29, 5 replies)

Not technically a date. More a kind of fig.
So there I was - walking back from a boozer in Brighton to crash round a mate's place, drunk as three lords gaffataped together, happily staggering down the middle of the road at around midnight, with Chris, and his then girlfriend. Each of us was jabbering away slurred gibberish, as you do. Then - a woman's voice shouts out to me "LAURENCE!!!"
Now, Laurence is not my name.
It's my friends name - and I look nothing like him.
I look round, and it's Jules, a girl I've met quite a few times (we even went in the same group to Glastonbury twice) but don't really know that well.
"LAURENCE!" She screeches at me, "Laurence! Hi! Wanna come back to mine?!?"
Er……yes? My drunken mind says, and then my face, so I end up going off with her to her flat. But only after my mate's girlfriend gives me a parting look that, even in my addled state, clearly says "are you SERIOUSLY going beck to this psychotic, mad goth's house when she's mistaken you for someone else?"
Anyway...
Back at hers - I go and have a much needed piss.
When I come back out into the living room, she's got some music video channel playing, with a video from the everyone's favourite "band you love to hate", U2 playing. And Jules is kneeling in front of the TV, topless, with her nipples brushing against the face of bespectacled twat Bono.
And she stayed there for the duration of the song - then the next song, and the next song - with no reaction to any of my questions at all . . that’s all she did.
Rub her nipples over the TV.

I woke up in her bed (edit- Where The Sheets Had No Stains) in the morning fully clothed.
She went to work.
I met her for a pint after work the next day and it was staggeringly awkward.

She did, however, eventually find Laurence.
They made a weird couple, but a couple none the less.

For a fortnight.

TL;DR - I watched, in drunken fascination, a goth with amphetamine psychosis, who thought I was someone else, rub her nipples over a TV screen for about half an hour.
(SigourneysBeaver took off and nuked the entire site from orbit on, Fri 18 Oct 2013, 11:14, 4 replies)

What's needed here is some stories told by REAL GIRLS, about how they went on a date with a guy, but he was a dweeb
So they went home, and their attractive female flatmate was still up, and they talked about the date, and how men are bastards, and how they both drank some wine, and got a bit tipsy, and then decided to get it on together.

In detail.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 17 Oct 2013, 17:24, 6 replies)

Sort of a date that ended with a break up.
I was 16, he was 16 we were at college. We were sort of experimenting with our sexuality yeah and booze. We were at his parents house but prior to the parents we were at various pubs getting teen drunk. Inebriation led us back to his to listen to some new epic vinyl and of course sexual shenanigans before passing out.

I was awoken at I presumed about 4am in the morning by his very angry parents. It was actually about 9.30pm. Their son had done something very bad and I was of course to blame. He had got up naked, gone to their best room and relieved himself whilst carry a piss horn into the waste paper basket, now in the best room the parents had guests. Everyone was quite shocked, understandably. The shock was greater because the waste paper basket was a wicker variety and did not have the usual carrier bag inside the wicker (slovens) and the piss had gone onto the newly fitted carpet. to round things off he spunk farted and some shit and spunk went on the carpet. Possibly not the best way to out yourself and I was not allowed in the house ever, ever again. Miserable bastards, not like I was the one who did it.
( d.r._and_quinch when will you be famous?, Tue 22 Oct 2013, 20:50, 13 replies)

a movie disaster
I had arranged to go to the cinema for my first ever date at the tender age of 14. I met her as planned outside Sweet Centres in the Trocadero in London, and we proceeded upstairs to the cinema.

My 1st mistake was buying popcorn - I realise this as I unattractively munched my way through my first mouthful: letting your date hear you chewing loudly is not a good start.

My second, 2-hour long mistake was my choice of film: Alive. You know, the one where the rugby team crash in the Andes and resort to cannibalism to stay alive. I really wanted to see it, but now know that kind of film doesn't go down well on a first (ever) date. My poor movie choice began to dawn on me after 20-minutes during the very realistic and horrifying plane crash scene - think people being sucked out of the falling plane screaming and crying. I sank further into my chair as the story continued: I knew I was never going to get a snog when the man on the screen stands over a frozen corpse wielding a penknife and delivers the romantic line:

'I'll start by eating his buttocks.'

When it finally ended, I took her to KFC - a class act all round. Needless to say, our relationship didn't last but I get a great 1st date story which I still tell to this day.

EPILOGUE
Fast-forward 20-years and I by chance bump into my (now happily married) 1st date at a station. We get a drink and chat - turns out she's been getting mileage out of that story for the last 20 years too :)
(daytripper, Sun 20 Oct 2013, 23:12, 1 reply)

A bad choice of film
Back in my youth I had fancied a particular girl for an absolute age. I finally plucked up the courage to ask her to go to the cinema with me on a date. Much to my surprise and delight she said yes.

I was scanning through the cinema listings for the films showing at the local indie cinema. I spotted a film called 'Irreversible'. 'French language revenge thriller' is all the blurb said. Great, I thought, it is a revenge thriller, which i'll like and she studies French at Uni so she'll think I'm being thoughtful.

For those of you that haven't seen the film, it is 97 minutes of a man graphically having his face smashed in with a fire extinguisher, plenty of gay sex scenes and possibly the longest, most harrowing rape scene ever committed to film.

We sat through the whole thing. Me too embarrassed to say anything or suggest we left, her presumably too terrified to say anything in case I decided to take her home and wear her skin as a jumper.

We left the auditorium in silence and in the foyer of the cinema she said in a small, scared voice 'Did you know it was going to be like that?'. I apologised and explained I didn't.

She never spoke to me again and spent a good 18 months avoiding me when I saw her on campus.
( Anthropos Was making beer on, Fri 18 Oct 2013, 16:09, 4 replies)

I've just remembered one, from ooh it must be decades ago

I didn't like his tracksuit, the cigar smelt horrible, and his gold chains kept whacking me in the back of the head.

On the plus side, he was blonde.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Fri 18 Oct 2013, 14:29, 2 replies)

Obviously...

( The Great Architect is still waiting for his account to be deleted on, Thu 17 Oct 2013, 17:28, 1 reply)

Three Bad Dates
all of which ended with me going to bed alone.

At school, there was a girl called Libby I was hopelessly besotted with. To my teenage mind, she was perfect. Brainy, demure, and with quite big tits. Anyway, I eventually persuaded her to let me take her out for lunch one day so we could chat. She agreed. We decided that the next day we’d go to a nice café down the High Street and spend an hour together. I’d made a big effort in the way only a 17 year old boy can: had a shower, sprayed on the Lynx Africa liberally, put a clean shirt on, and ‘borrowed’ my Dad’s nice watch. She turned up to meet me with her gay best friend in tow, who then proceeded to look bored and keep interrupting the conversation to ask about what they were doing after. The next day she told me she didn’t want to see me any more because Graham thought I was dull. I wouldn’t mind so much if I hadn’t paid for both their lunches. Graham had had a dessert too, the fat cunt.

Then, years later, there was the Australian girl I’d pulled in a nightclub. We’d exchanged numbers and agreed to go for a Japanese meal. It was quite pleasant except for the fact she kept banging on about Jesus. We went back to mine afterwards and things got a bit intimate, except she said she wouldn’t go further than kissing and a little light fondling before marriage. I tried to clarify exactly what ‘light fondling’ involved and whether it might involve her touching my willy. She left and texted the next day to say she really liked me but she was worried the relationship wasn’t going to be a good fit with her faith.

The absolute worst was when I was set up with a friend of a friend. She was a nice girl, and I’d met her before, and knew she was chatty, pretty, and we’d got on quite well. The date went well, and whilst I thought it was obvious she didn’t really fancy me, and was a bit out of my league, we got on really well and chatted for hours. I was now quite keen. Luckily, she wanted to go for a second date. Great. What do you fancy doing?

An all day traditional dance workshop encompassing various styles of European folk dance.

I politely but firmly made my excuses despite her insistence that it would be brilliant fun. Instead, I arranged to meet her afterward and take her for a nice meal. The thing is, though, it was immediately apparent that she was really, really angry at me for not going to the thing. Any questions about how it had gone were rebuffed quickly with ‘don’t worry about asking, I know you’re not interested’. We made small talk on various subjects, but it was hard to avoid the elephant in the room. Eventually I asked her if she was annoyed about it, and she said something like ‘I don’t get annoyed. Life is too short to get annoyed. Sometimes I’m just very tempted to get annoyed. That’s all.’ OK… at the end of a long and awkward night of stilted conversation, I walked her to the tube station in the rain, said goodbye, and never heard from her again. She ignored my texts and calls. I later heard from our mutual friend that she was really, really pissed off about the European folk dance workshop.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 17 Oct 2013, 17:11, 7 replies)

Famed novelist, raconteur and piss-head Kinglsey Amis tells this story
About his friend, the Kremlinologist and poet, Robert Conquest. At one of Amis' drunken parties, Conquest proceeds to get lucky with a lady and takes her upstairs to a bedroom for a jolly rogering. Concerned about the impression others would get of them both reappearing at the same time, Conquest lowers himself down a drainpipe into the garden and back into the hubbub of the alcoholic soiree. Ever the ladies man, Conquest proceeds to continue trying his luck, and propositions a woman, who slapped him on the face.

It was the same woman he'd fucked earlier.
(McChinaman banned, Wed 23 Oct 2013, 11:54, 2 replies)

Close Call
In my younger years (well mids twenties) I had a number of close calls. I was single, but for some reason I just ended up with girls that just happened to be married or with someone else. I didnt especially do it on purpose, it was just uncanny.

One special night I was out with a few friends from work, out in a place not too far from Luton. I didn't live in Luton, and I knew that quite probably I would be abandoned during the night at some point as most of them loved the old Irish exit...

For some reason I was just on form.... I got two numbers and quite frisky with one of them, but they were going on to other clubs and I wasnt, so that ended.

Then I saw her, my first MILF. She was around 40, blonde, and very tidy. I spent the rest of the night, and everything was going well. Her friend was even on my side...

At the end of the night I thought everything was on for a night of hide the sausage, but she turned me down. I was gutted. Off they went in a taxi, and I had lost all my work friends. I was stood outside the nightclub, and after about 5 minutes, who should turn up was the taxi they went off in, and the door opened, and her friend shouted 'you best get in here, i've spent all night trying to get her to shag you, dont dissapoint me!'

So I got in, and we all went to her house, and that was that. It was a great night, and yes, everything went to plan...

The next morning, not so well....

We both woke up about 9am to the sound of banging on the door downstairs. She then looked in horror at me, and told me to get dressed, as it was her husband.

The next 60 seconds went in a blur. I got ready and was dressed in 10 seconds, she ran downstairs to unbolt the door. I opened the bedroom window and timed me jumping out onto the garage roof with her opening the door to her irate husband.

I jumped onto the drive and didn't look back, just ran like the wind... and kept on running for felt like hours.

When I finally stopped I realised I had no idea where I was, and I had no transport.

I had to ring work to get the mobile number of someone to pick me up before I got spotted, and thankfully they did.

I can laugh about it now.
(h3dg3h0g, Sun 20 Oct 2013, 12:25, 2 replies)

It all came flooding back...
It was the mid nineties and life revolved around a grotty dark low rate nightclub at their indie night (Happy Wednesdays @ The Winter Gardens, Milton Keynes). I would dress in my favourite black denim and a music t-shirt then go to drink as much watered down booze as I could and enjoy the music.

I'd always been a bit shy in approaching girls but was quite outgoing with mates and always enjoyed a night out. This particular night I obviously in high spirits, chatted up a girl, got a snog and went home happy.

I woke with words ringing in my ears that I had to phone before 11am and found a name and number scrawled on a scrap of paper on my desk. Annette. It didn't ring a bell so I cast my mind back and remembered the slender brunette I'd kissed the night before and was only too eager to chuck some clothes on and go and find a payphone. Yes kids, once upon a time we didn't all have mobiles, it would be another 4 years before I got one of those...

Annette answered the phone and was eager to see me again. She lived in Newport Pagnell, about 7 miles from me, but would be visiting her friend that evening who lived less than a mile away. Plans were set and we were to meet that night at her friends house before going out for the evening.

My day was spent flitting between excitement and anguish, unable to concentrate on anything I was home early and sorted out a suitably clean set of clothes, pocket of money and car keys. Then made my way to our rendevouz.

Anxiously I made my way up the garden path to the front door and briefly closed my eyes to remember the gorgeous girl I was meeting, satisfied this was probably the best thing to have happened for months I pressed the doorbell. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears...

The door opened.... There stood a pear shaped ginger girl perhap an inch taller than a hobbit and no better looking. I opened my mouth to say "Hi, is Annette there please?" but before the words could come out she excitedly greeted me and I had one of those TV flashback moments.... a flashback in which I snogged the brunette, went to get another drink lost my bearings, went dancing and ended up snogging a ginger hobbit... called Annette.

To my credit, or perhaps shame, I went through with the date. Took her to a pub she liked and spent too much of the time looking at her and wondering what the hell I was drinking the night before.

EDIT: Annette, very sorry but if you read or hear of this tale at any point then I confess that our short lived "relationship" was based on a case of mistaken identity.
I would perhaps have a touch of guilt or remorse if it were not for the fact that the night I had enough and we split up you then spent the night with my flatmate, something for which he felt sufficiently awkward that you may recall the following morning we jointly arranged a taxi for you and went out to sail a giant 16 man inflatable dingy down the river to Caldecotte Lake then went to the pub.
I can however say that getting wet in the the cold dirty lake was still more enjoyable than getting wet in the short pear shaped ginger.
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Fri 18 Oct 2013, 9:46, 5 replies)

Bang! I've come first.
Which reminds me of every date I've ever had.
( Ring Of Fire A petty, drooling belming butthurt retard., Thu 17 Oct 2013, 16:30, 3 replies)

Spoiling your date's date
A few years back I'd just recently split up from my girlfriend of 5 years and wasn't feeling all that grand.

Every night was spent in the pub spending all the money I had managed to earn that day.

This isn't the best time to meet a girl (let alone one that will turn into your future ex-wife)but there it is, it happened.

Blurry eyes met across the crowded pub, shots were bought and drunk, she was invited back to mine for a smoke. When we got back she announced that she didn't smoke but wanted to come back anyway.

The night quickly descended into sexy time (even more speedily than I would have thought as she was going commando).

After this, numbers were exchanged and like any cripplingly shy bloke I couldn't pick up the courage to call her.

A few days later, I bumped into her in my local and proceed to apologise for my lack of communication after the night we had spent together. It wasn't that I didn't want to see her again, I was just nervous, how about we meet up?

She went a little quiet, turned around and introduced me to her date for that night, her boyfriend of the best part of a year.

I think I truly fucked that date up.

Within a month I'd moved in with her, a couple of years later we were married and less than 2 years after that we got divorced. Should have realised what kind of girl she was when I ballsed up that poor guy's date.
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Tue 22 Oct 2013, 18:21, 3 replies)

I had been planning our date for ages
And when it finally came to the day of my date with the mouse from the moon, I was all excited. But we just couldn't communicate in any meaningful manner. I cut the date short and went home alone.

Long story short, I dropped a clanger.
(Eukanuba, Tue 22 Oct 2013, 6:43, 4 replies)

Bad Dates of Povvo Christmas Past
Seventies. In run up to Christmas the lounge sprouted an abundance of highly flammable and dangerously frangible decorations while the radiogramme acquired a tablecloth and stoically bore its festive payload of fizzy drinks, satsumas, mixed nuts, fruit jellies and a couple of discorectangular boxes of dates toward the Feast of Stephen.

Did love me them dates.

Until the time lid came off to reveal the biggest, fattest witchetty grub-like fucker laying pulsing like a fat cream slug between those tasty, fruity ranks.

Akh! Put me off dates for years.
(Ronnie Spleen MMMMNEURRGH I AM A GAY SPAZ AND I LOVE IT UP MY BU, Tue 22 Oct 2013, 0:20, Reply)