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This is a question Bedroom Disasters

Big Girl's Blouse asks: Drug fuelled orgies ending in a pile of vomit? Accidental spillage of Chocolate Pudding looking like a dirty protest? Someone walking in on you doing something that isn't what it looks like?... Tell us about your Bedroom Disasters

(, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 15:14)
Pages: Popular, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Alcohol was a factor
My new girlfriend told me she liked it rough. Despite having never done anything like that before, I think "fuck it", and we decide to go for it one night after a trip to the pub.

We get through the door and take our roles. Music is put on to cover the oncoming storm of grunts. She gets shoved onto the bed, hard, and lies there, legs akimbo, to let me "ravish" her (her term, I might add).

After maybe a minute of such ravishing, I realise I'm getting minimal feedback. I look up.

She'd hit her head on the wall when I shoved her...

...and I'd molested her while she was unconscious.

We don't tell that one at dinner parties.
(, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 4:08, 11 replies)
Cancer of the colon
One of my friends - let’s call him Barry, is a funny bloke, not bad looking, but really shy around girls and was single for a long time. He got a new girlfriend and things progressed to spending quite a lot of time at each others’ place.

One night, Barry and his new girlfriend were lying in bed together, about to turn out the light. Barry plucked up all his courage and told her the thing he’d being thinking all day.

“I… I think I love you”

She looked at him. He swallowed nervously; had he messed everything up?

“I think I love you too” she replied. Barry’s heart leapt! Hooray! He hadn’t frightened her off! Turning over to turn out the light, he plucked up just a tiny bit more courage and said “Actually, I don’t think: I do”

She went quiet and they lay awkwardly in the darkness. Barry’s mind raced; had he ruined everything after all? Come on too strong?

The following morning was a little strained, then that evening after work he plucked up yet more courage and asked her the question he was dreading: “What happened last night? I told you that I love you and you went all quiet”

Whereupon his girlfriend flew into his arms, showered him with kisses and explained that what she’d heard was subtly but importantly different to what he’d meant:

“I think I love you”
“I think I love you too”
“Actually, I don’t think I do”




No apologies for length – it just looks longer coz of the line breaks – and I’m not apologising for them either. You love it
(, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 13:50, 20 replies)
For one, terrifying moment I knew what it felt like to be a murderer
I jerk awake, suddenly and completely. There's no gradual period of growing consciousness; one moment I was passed out, not dreaming, dead for all I knew, and the next I here I am, alive and feeling great and... No. Not feeling so great. I must have drunk a fair bit last night. Where am I? Hmm, more than a fair bit. Can't move. Where *am* I? This isn't my room.

I look around. It's not a hotel either. No TV. So where is this place? I look up, ducking sharply as the space shuttle plummets towards my head! No, it's not crashing, it's not moving at all, it's tied to the ceiling. I look down. Spiderman glares menacingly at me from the duvet. The disturbingly small duvet. My feet are dangling over the edge of the bed, still clad in socks that fortunately I recognise as my own. Why are there plastic dinosaurs on the floor? Why are their aeroplanes on the wall? I keep looking. Shelves. Books. Big, bright, colourful books with titles in a foreign language I've never seen before. What the fuck?

Oh dear God what have I done?

I raise myself up, slowly, so slowly. Don't jolt! My brain feels like an over-full cup of tea, it's sloshing around and I have to move so carefully or it will spill right out of my ears. Waves of nausea crash up against me, battering my fragile grasp on reality. Is this real? Do I want it to be? I can taste something strange now, not the usual dead-rat hangover mouth, but something metallic. My face feels odd too, like I'm wearing a mask. I touch it, it's sticky. My fingers come away covered with something red.


Instantly it comes to me: I've got so drunk I've blacked out, broken into a house *in a foreign country* and then killed and eaten a child so I could sleep in his bed.

How? I've never even been in a fight! I'm a monster! I remember stories of people blacking out and doing horrific things, strangling their wives in their sleep, or killing themselves. Now I'm one of them. Please let this be a nightmare. Please, please. I look around for signs of a struggle, for a body, a broken window. Nothing. The room is small, the only blood is on me and most of my clothes are neatly stacked on a chair in the corner. Where is the victim? Maybe I didn't kill him? Maybe we fought, and he escaped because I was too sloshed to finish the job. I want to throw up.

Time to see where I've been. Take stock. My mobile is dead. My pockets contain some money - Danske Bank! Aha! I'm in Denmark. Why, though? I should be in London. There's a receipt, 4,000KR, my name, 11:37pm and a word that looks like it might translate as 'gallery'. Eh? There's a ticket stub, too. Brian Wilson, in some place called Aalborg. It's coming back to me now. My Danish friend Tom was talking about going to see Brian Wilson in his home town. Obviously I decided to go. It seems like I spent four hundred quid on a painting as well, though there's no sign of it here. That, and I tried to cannibalise a child. I'm panicking now, not sure whether to laugh or vomit but wanting to do both.

Where am I *now* though? Where in Denmark?

There's a knock at the door. A pretty Scandinavian woman walks in, mid thirties, she looks a bit familiar. She's smiling, but her face changes when she sees mine. It's not rage though, it's concern. Doesn't she know?

"Scrumper! Morning! Did you sleep OK? Why is there blood on your face?"

Thank the Lord above for that. She knows me and I didn't eat her son. The relief is visceral, tangible. I cling to it, try not to cry.

"I don't know. What happened? Where am I? Do you know Tom?"

"Haha you idiot. We're having breakfast, come and I'll get you a cloth for your face."

The story emerged over some cold meat and bread. I had indeed flown to the far North of Denmark to see Brian Wilson be very weird and very brilliant in front of a few thousand people in a rain-soaked amphitheatre. Tom's new girlfriend, a single mum, had come along too. Her friend owned a gallery near the gig which was having a late-night opening with free wine. I'd bought a picture from her friend and we'd then all gone out to celebrate until four or five in the morning and then gone back to hers. Her son was with his father, so they'd dumped me in his bed to sleep it off. Nobody could explain the blood.

The picture turned up in London a few months later. It's a gigantic, nightmarish red abstract; a vision the artist called "The Beast." It captures perfectly the view a train driver would have if Snoopy decided to end it all in front of an Intercity 125. It hangs proudly in my bedroom now, scaring my wife and reminding me of the day I went to hell and came back.
(, Wed 29 Jun 2011, 19:08, 11 replies)
Mysterious intruder bested by confused rage
Many moons ago my father had three major influences in his life - the Royal Navy, a chronic sleep disorder, and quick fists. Thanks to the first of these, he and my mother found themselves living a balmy tropical lifestyle on the island of Mauritius in the early seventies. Idyllic, halcyon days of rum and sunshine, tempered only by my father's minimal duties and occasional, absolute batshit mentalism …

One typically enchanting night, my parents were sleeping blissfully in the silence of their quarters. Unfortunately though, the nasty night demons were toying with my father's mind. Mumbling, tossing and turning, he suddenly sat bolt upright in bed like an electrocuted lobotomy patient.

Fuck … there was someone stood in their room!

There was no time to think. The time for action was now. "I AM MAN, AND MY KNUCKLES ARE LEGION" I like to think he screamed as he leaped at the shadowy stranger. A thunderous left hook was delivered right into the face (the FACE! Man this must have been exciting). So strong was my father's righteous justice muscle that the force of his almighty punch made the hapless intruder literally explode. Everywhere.
Just like a mirror would, in fact.

Yep, he'd decked his own reflection, completely severing an artery in the process.

My mother woke to the glorious vision of a totally bewildered, adrenaline-fuelled sailor squirting high pressure blood all over the bedroom, with a demented grin of victory on his face. She wrapped the wound and they hastily made their way to the hospital.

It being mid-week, the on-duty Navy surgeon had expected a quiet night. Quite reasonably, therefore, he had turned up for his shift and proceeded to get absolutely shitfaced. Nevertheless, he was determined to face the challenge of my father head-on. Operating under the assumption that 'nerves are a myth', he proceeded to sew my father's wrist back together with all the care and zeal of a depressed butcher.

40 years later my dad still has no feeling in half his hand, and an absolute canyon of a scar. He's never fought with his reflection since.
(, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 9:10, 5 replies)
Oh go on then. I'll re re re pearost.
Why has B3ta made me relive this WWWWWWWWHHHHYYYYYYYYYYYYY.
bEFORE i START-fecking caps lock- my tale of woe, a little background.

I used to live in Bangkok, and also like a bit of a drink. As such for many years I used to wake up still langered with strange girls in my bed. The usual thing to do in this situation is grope around a bit, then have a nice drunken bleary eyed morning shag then send the young lady on her way, with the money in her purse to keep her kids in shoes for another month.

You think this is going to be about waking up with a ladyboy don't you. You're wrong, that was last weeks QOTW. This is much much worse.

So I'd been away for a few years, and it was time to pop home to visit friends and family for a week. I arrived had dinner with the parents, and it was off down the pub for a session with the mates.

Now I like to think I can take my drink, but the combination of getting on the plane pissed, drinking for the entire flight- good old Thai air, they still ply you with drink to this day- then an evening down the local on top of my jet lag, and I was in a right state. At least I think I was, as I can't remember this part of the story, I'm pieceing it together from what I've been told, and a little deduction.

So it's 2 in the morning, the local gorgonzola city club is kicking out, and I need to go back to the parents house for some long overdue sleep.

But on arriving at the front door I had the old can't get the key in the lock problem, so in the end settled for sleeping on the garden path in front of the front door.

Now my dad is a baker, and as such gets up very early in the morning to go to work. So at around 5 he opens the front door to find me asleep on the path, wakes me up, tells me I'm an idiot, and sends me inside to go to bed.

I stumble upstairs climb into bed, and all is well with the world. I can remember none of this.

What I can remember, is waking up about an hour later- why is it when you've been on a proper bender you can only sleep for a short time, when what you need is a good eight hours?- in a darkened room, pissed out of my face, and a bit disorientated.

Now I thought I was still in my room in Bangkok, and true to form there was a nice warm body in the bed next to me. So what else could I do, but try and get it on. But things didn't go as usual, my advances were met with screams of Eden, what the fuck are you doing?

Yes, I had stunmbled upstairs, and got into bed with my mum. Apparently she had tried to kick me into my own bed, but to no avail, so had gone back to sleep, with me sleeping in her bed. Then I woke up and tried it on.

So the most horrific thing I've seen, is me, trying to fuck my mum.

Just recounting this brings back those suicidal feelings.

I'm off to book some more therapy.

Don't make the length jokes. Please don't.

(, Mon 27 Jun 2011, 0:37, 36 replies)
The fart that launched a thousand shits
So It was my friend Gary's 20th birthday. We'll call him Gary, for his real name was James. Gary, being a bit of a lad, decided that he'd like to go out for a bender pub crawl in London, have some good food and then go meet some fine ladies at a club. Sounded like a plan, we'd all meet in Leicester Square at 12pm and get things kicked off. I'd woken up with a bit of a funny tummy that morning, but nothing that was going to stop me having a good time. One of Gary's mates, Tony, decided it would be a great plan if we all downed a shot of tequila before each pint during the pub crawl. He'd also brought along a shitload of tabasco sauce to 'brighten up' Gary's pints of lager while most of us drank ale. It wasn't many pints later before we were all keen enough (and drunk enough) to start knocking up some macho points by necking shots of tabasco. I think I must have done five or so. Content that we'd proven to the world just how unbelievably cool we were, we headed off for some food. Spice still on the tongue, we headed into a relatively swanky looking curry place. By this point my stomach was REALLY starting to protest, but the tabasco sauce seemed to have passed through so I thought "fuck it, what's a curry going to do?"

...One extra hot chicken madras later, and Gibbons innards were not having a good time. I could feel my duodenum churning, twisting and turning. We paid the good men at the Indian and wandered through the now darkened streets to a club. I can't remember the name, but it was a fucking dive. There were groups of what looked like crack dealers amongst barely conscious women in darkened corners. The woman (at least I think she was a woman) behind the bar sounded like Barry White and had a tattoo of a snake on her neck. We downed a round of tequilas and danced for a bit.

My memory is hazy by this point - we've had 10 pints and 11 tequilas, and Gary got thrown out shortly after we started dancing for punching a lesbian "right in the fadge" as he put it, so we headed back to the outskirts of London on a train. Gibbon's innards were screaming with grumbles of protest by this point, and I was having serious regrets over that curry, let alone the 10 pints of beer, 5 shots of tabasco and 11 tequilas. Arriving home I quietly headed straight for the bog, trying not to wake my flatmates who didn't know I'd been out drinking, and released a long, foul fart that the devil himself would have been proud to have spawned.
...Nothing followed. "Is that all you were groaning about?" I chortled to my guts, before swaying to bed....

...11am I woke up to the foulest stench that could ever befall a human being. Words cannot describe the abhorrent, rancid, effluent malodour. It was utterly atrocious, and instantly made me retch. Vomming into the bin, I turned around to see the source from whence such sin arose: a vile, stinking pile of reddish-brown splutterings, literally COVERING my bed. With the abominable odour of a mixture of curry, drains and (strangely) cabbage, I certainly wasn't proud. In fact, I'd not only shat myself, I'd done it in shameful, epic style. Still ever so slightly drunk, I thought "fuck it", threw the horrendous feculent bedclothes out my window, and went back to bed.

Next thing I know, I wake up at 2pm. Stumbling downstairs, I find my flatmates in the lounge, which was directly below my room and with a view out to the garden directly below my window. They're just sitting in silence. Glancing out the window, I notice the bedsheets aren't there. The washing machine is quietly whirring next door. Before I can open my mouth to speak, my flatmate Jen simply said "I don't know what the fuck you ate yesterday, but it's all over my courgette plants."
(, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 10:40, 6 replies)
I'm sure there will be many tales similar in tone to mine, but this one is, I feel, exceptional in its own shudderingly disgusting way.

If you are a pet owner, you may be familiar with the vile and hellish phrase "anal glands". If you aren't, and you have a strong stomach, feel free to google the phrase.

Go ahead, I'll wait.

Got it? The phrase "thick and foul-smelling" keeps coming up, doesn't it? Let me tell you, that's like describing the stench of a three-month rotten egg as "a bit off".

The story begins with me fast asleep in my bed on an uneventful evening. My bed is directly under a window. A strange cat has been roaming the neighborhood for a few days, and apparently he's on the windowsill outdoors. One of our cats has decided this is unacceptable and is beginning to go through the normal cat exercise of yowling and growling at the strange feline. He's chosen to do this next to my head, almost on my pillow, so I groggily wake up to an angry cat lashing his tail into my nose. In my sleepy state, I reach up to gently nudge the cat off the bed.

According to Wikipedia, "[t]he glands can spontaneously empty, especially under times of stress".

Although this is referring to dogs, I have experimental data that strongly suggests the same mechanism exists in felines. Apparently my cat was so absorbed by growling at the rival cat that my sleepy nudge quite startled him. So much, in fact, that he emptied said glands. Everywhere. Everywhere including INTO MY EYES.

Imagine this: You are sound asleep. You are half-aroused by a cat rustling about the bed. You go to give sweet kitty a gentle tap, and suddenly there is a terrible, horrible stench and a dampness on your face, and you are wide awake and screaming, running into the bathroom, believing that your cat's just shat into your eyes. And the truth is almost worse, because although it's not actual shit, the smell is so much worse. Worse than the odor of a thousand catboxes; worse than dog farts; worse than burning tires. And you are frantically washing your face--your entire head, really--and praying that it didn't actually make contact with your eyeballs, and is instead really only *just* in your eyebrows.

If, in the middle of the night, the "good" outcome is "shit in your eyebrows", it has not been an excellent evening.

And during all this my poor boyfriend has woken up to a terrible smell, a screaming woman, a very upset cat, and terribly soiled bed linens. I imagine it wasn't his favorite wake-up, either.

By some impossible grace I escaped any sort of eye infection, which is the only less-than-terrible thing I can say about this experience.
(, Sat 25 Jun 2011, 8:10, 11 replies)
Not me, but the lesbians.
My two clam jousting friends decided to get themselves a cute little puppy dog (for some unkown reason).

This little puppy is now a lot bigger and has developed the hobby of eating their undercrackers.

This would all be fine if he chewed them first, but, or no, he just eats out the crotch and swallows the rest down. This results in some rather pitiful whining as he drags his arse across the floor with some floral linen sticking out of his jacksy.

Now one day I was over for dinner and the dog started up on his whining "I've got pants stuck up my arse, do something about it!" he said in his best doggy fasion. Now mein hosts are a polite lot and thought they couldn't extract the pants in front of me, the kitchen had food in and the only place left with room for the two of them to perform this extraction was in the bedroom, so off they went half carrying, half dragging the canine with them.

They were in there for a couple of minutes before there was a loud scream, a laugh followed by more screams, insults and the sound of two ladies racing each other to the bathroom.

It transpires that whilst lesbian 1 held the dog, lesbian 2 had the unenviable job of retrieving the pants from the dogs arse with a pair of tweezers. As the pants were just about out of the orifice the elastic on them decided to come into action, pinging the overly soiled knickers back into number 2s face, prompting no 1 to laugh like a loon. Number 1, who had had the shitty end of the deal in the first place was most upset, and even more so at her partners immaturity, proceded to throw the poo covered pants at her laughing girlfriend, scoring a direct hit onto a laughing face. Cue screams, insults and running to the bathroom in an atempt to be the first one there and lock the other out.

After that, the dinner part didn't go down too well!
(, Sat 25 Jun 2011, 15:51, 18 replies)
I once spat on a lightbulb.
No idea why.
I was on the top bunk, the lamp was on the bedside table.
I dribbled some spittle on it.
It exploded.
Embedding superheated glass shards in my 10 year old face.
I didn't cry.
I was more worried about explaining to my mum why the lightbulb in my room had exploded.
(, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 17:24, 12 replies)
The one where Chickenlady and PJM make the bed
Madame Poulet and I have been shacked up together for a while now. We quickly decided that we’d need a new bed so we sloped off to the nearest Ikea where a cunning plan began to form.

Chez Chickenlady isn’t exactly palatial and our bedroom is somewhat limited in storage space. As we ambled in between the Itskräp bedroom furniture and Fvännibattør wardrobe units, the solution to our space conundrum presented itself before us. A loft bed.

The loft bed in the shop was suspended upon six feet high wooden legs and if our measurements were correct, Chickenlady’s office desk would fit snugly underneath allowing plenty of room for her to work and to store a multitude of clothes, books and Lulu Guinness handbags with enough spare space for all of my guff too.

The next morning, in order to make way for the construction of our new bed, I attempted to manoeuvre the large desk out of the way of the bedroom door.

*Smack!* “You twat!”

I'd managed to smack my forehead on a protruding corner of the unit. If I’m completely honest, I’m a bit of a beadlehands and have no co-ordination whatsoever, so me doing any DIY in a combined space is really a recipe for an imminent visit to A&E. I had to sit quietly for a few minutes before the dizziness subsided.

Once she had finished sniggering, Chickenlady appeared with freshly made coffee and the assembly instructions. I also appropriated a bicycle multi-tool, a screwdriver and a sturdy rubber mallet from my toolbox and we set about building the frame of the bed. Actually, if I can be honest once again, I usually pretty much disregard assembly instructions per se. I mean, they’re really only advisory aren’t they?

“It quite obviously states that you need to assemble this section first” exclaimed a bemused Chickenlady, as she pointed at the piece of paper in her hand.

“Nonsense, these instructions are really only advisory aren’t they?”

With that I continued to bolt the lengths of wood together until I realised that two semi-built sections would require some kind of assertive persuasion in order to be able to fit together.

“Pass that mallet here Chickenlady, I know what I’m doing. Here, you hold this end”


Whatever I’d just hit with the mallet didn’t feel much like solid pine. I glanced at Chickenlady’s rapidly watering eyes and realised the magnitude of my error. Her thumb was already beginning to redden and swell.

“Give. Me. The. Fucking. Mallet, PJM”

I decided to make us more coffee. I ducked past the semi-assembled frame and tried to negotiate the large desk.

*Smack!* “Ouch, bollocks. Not again…”

Twenty minutes later and now sporting a sizeable bruise on my forehead, I reappeared to find that Chickenlady had made admirable progress building the bed. It dawned on me that she might actually be better at this DIY malarkey than me, which is something I had never considered before.

“Look, I’ve got it covered here. Why don’t you go out for a couple of hours on your bike or something?” she said, gently.

“But I really can do this, I’ve built loads of furniture before” I implored.

Chickenlady held up her angry looking swollen thumb and frowned, which told me all I needed to know.

Two hours later, I returned to the house to find the frame almost built. She really had done an amazing job. It was five-thirty in the afternoon and just beginning to darken outside. All we needed to do was to install the slats, shove the mattress in place and we’d be ready to sleep like royalty.

I always like to take a belt and braces approach to any engineering task, so I found some brass wood screws in the garage and pressed these into action. Those slats were never going to go anywhere, even if it took me three more hours to fit the damn things.

At half past eight the bed was complete. The next job was to bring the mattress upstairs and drop it into place. It wasn’t going to be easy, for it was king sized and must have weighed the best part of two hundred pounds. Trying to fold it around a narrow, winding staircase with a low ceiling was hard work.

After another hour of heaving, swearing and contortion, we had bullied the mattress into place. With that, we dragged the large wooden desk under the bed, noting that there was two inches clearance. Feeling triumphant, we refilled the shelves of the desk with books. Anyone who knows Chickenlady also knows that she has a lot of books. An hour later, we’d refitted the bedroom accordingly and were marvelling at the amount of space at our disposal.

“I suppose we’d better try this out then. Go on, you first”.
Chickenlady gestured towards the ladder, upon which I ascended. I crawled onto the mattress and lay on my back. Something wasn’t quite right. I hoped for a moment that she wouldn’t notice.

“My nose is three inches away from the ceiling” she sighed.

She had a point. Even Houdini would have found it claustrophobic. We spent another hour retrieving everything from under the bed and moving it back out onto the landing. Again. Trusted with an angry looking De Walt power saw, I hacked away at a hastily measured eighteen inches height, whilst bent double under the bed with inadequate lighting while Chickenlady and her mum supported the weight of the bed on their shoulders as the room rapidly filled with sawdust and noise.

Finally, the four semi amputated legs were kicked away and the bed ended up an acceptable distance from the ceiling. By some miracle, all of the legs were the correct length and the bed itself was perfectly flat. Unfortunately, the desk would now never fit underneath the bed and the idea of an office there would only prove feasible if the chickeny one were a rather petite Hobbit. We were too tired to care at this point so we vacuumed the floor, made the bed and were finally asleep by twenty to two in the morning, fourteen hours after we started.


Since then, we’ve had several more items of self assembly furniture delivered to the house, nearly all of which have been completely assembled by the time I get home from work. I’ve been anxious to re-establish my DIY credentials since then, so I fixed a rail across the underside of the bed so that the lovely Chickenlady can hang her multitude of clothes out of the way. It worked well for a few months, until it decided to give way in the middle of the night, dumping suits, dresses and jackets unceremoniously on the floor.
(, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 17:06, 13 replies)
When I lived in halls at uni, you could hear a lot of what was going on in peoples rooms out in the hall way and in our kitchen.
One night one of the lads had managed to pull some girl on his course. Sat in our kitchen, we could all hear the bed squeaking and then we heard
then the inevitable slam of the bedroom door as she stormed out 10 minutes later with tissues covering her nose.
(, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 18:00, 4 replies)
Out of the mouths of babes....
Many years ago, my 3rd son, then aged about 7, said at breakfast,
"Mummy, did you have a nightmare last night?"
"Um - not sure..."
"You were going 'ooh, ooh, ooh!' it went on for AGES!"
I went scarlet and caught my husband's eye. He was beaming across the scrambled eggs....
(, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 14:54, 1 reply)
Proud Mickey
It was 1981, and my family and I had been happily living in our three bedroom townhouse for the best part of a year.

Having moved in, my dad systematically began redecorating every room in the house as it was clear the previous occupants had an odd fixation with beige (maybe it wasn't a fixation, just the 70's).

It finally came the time to do my bedroom. As a young lad, I picked out the perfect wallpaper, it was Action Man performing all sorts of heroic tasks in jeeps, helicopters and motor bikes. Probably worth a bob or two these days.

Having purchased said paper, my Dad and I began the ball-aching task of peeling the old wallpaper off the walls. All was going well until the final wall, when lurking behind the paper was a 6' illustration of everyone's favourite rodent, Mickey Mouse. Mickey had a big grin on his face, and rightly so because he was sporting the largest penis my tiny eyes had ever seen. The artist had clearly put way more effort into the cock and balls than anything else, ensuring they were fully detailed with bulging veins, neatly trimmed pubic hair and wrinkles.

My mum and dad laughed, I was just a little bit frightened. They called it a day, and left me to go to bed with Mickey's enormous member mere inches from my face.

We papered over Mickey the next day, but to my knowledge he's still there, terrifying unsuspecting 6 year-olds.
(, Wed 29 Jun 2011, 12:32, 5 replies)
A flthy little pearoast will slot in nicely here, I reckon.....

Back in the days when I was married, I remembered hatching a fiendish plan to seduce my lady wife as she arrived home from work. Utilising only a few household props, I managed to concoct a situation that would instantly make her knickers fly from her body as soon as she walked in the door. She would, quite simply, not know what had happened until an hour after it was all over.

You wouldn't think it possible to duct-tape yourself to a bed, but it is. I managed my ankles easily, it was my wrists that took a little skill, but after a mere ten minutes, I was securely(ish) fastened to the headboard. I waited. Like a sleek panther, I waited. My prey would come. Oh yes.

And she did. And she brought with her her sister and her sister's boyfriend. I began struggling when I first heard their voices in the hallway, and managed to get one hand free as my ex walked into the bedroom. Seeing me half strapped to the bed, rapidly deflating knob flapping around as I flailed wildly to free myself did not, oddly enough, turn her into a gibbering pile of juices, but instead reduced her to gales of laughter. She only snapped out of it when she realised her sister and her sister's boyfriend had also come upstairs and were about a nanosecond from entering the room. Obviously her sister had to be shielded from the vision of pure sex that lay flailing on the bed, lest she be overcome with lust, and so my wife managed to halt them in their tracks and take them back downstairs as I freed myself from my self-made bondage and hurriedly got dressed. Good girl. That would have been embarrassing, that would.

I suppose it would probably have been more embarrassing than the 3 hours of smirks and repressed giggles I endured that night as I sat there red faced. The bugger told them what I'd been up to.

Hmph. It was months before I tried a surprise seduction again. Youd be amazed at the many varied reactions springing from the understairs cupboard bollock naked can illicit.
(, Sat 25 Jun 2011, 4:02, 2 replies)
swingers club
should I tell this, shouldn't I, should I ?

ah fuck it!

ok, me and the wife in a kind of mutual dare went to a swingers club. One in Wirral, nearest us at the time, under the pretext of just watching and not getting involved. Yeah right.

I had in mind something like the masked ball scene from Eyes Wide Shut. All wandering around like Tom Cruise, remaining cool and detached and curious. Reality very rarely lives up to the fantasy.

1 bottle of wine and bus trip later we arrived, paid the couple fee (single women go free) and got shown around every room by a middle aged woman in what looked like a costumed tutu. Apart from the initial shock of passing people openly fucking in the orgy rooms we were shown a full on bondage session in progress. Nipple clamps with a dominatrix.

After getting dressed to the dress code (men in towels, women in sexy undies). We chilled at the bar and jacuzzi having a great time chatting to couples and various single guys and women.

Then we ventured upstairs to the shagging rooms. After watching a full on orgy we passed one of the rooms with one of the couples we met at the bar. They coaxed us in. We went.

Needless to say there was one bed and we swapped partners.

The most shocking part was how utterly bored I was during it. Despite my wife getting into it I was praying for the woman I was mechanically humping to come so I could get it over with. Mid way through she even turned around and said "when you're about to come pull out and do it on my back ok?" "yeah sure" I lied. Knowing full well there was no way I was going to climax.

It was certainly an experience, and the shocking part for me was how bloody bored I was by it. More disappointed in realising I wasn't the wild bohemian I always thought I was. Just a normal dull 'would rather fuck my wife' type guy. We both felt cheap afterwards, but had a bloody good laugh about it.

there, I said it
(, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 21:04, 67 replies)
14 years ago, about 9pm
I went upstairs and peeped into the kids' bedroom (who were 4 and 5 at the time) and noticed that they were awake and muttering about something.

So I went in to settle them down properly and tuck them in, but the duvet had shifted to one end making the cover just look like a bag. So I picked it up to sort it out. When I put a cover on a duvet, I do that thing where you turn the cover inside out and then grab the corners of the duvet from within and pull it through, turning the cover the right way around in one swift movement. However, I wasn't that dexterous, because I'd had almost a full bottle of wine sloshing about inside me.

I turned the cover inside out, reached in and it slipped over me. I tried to throw it back off, but I had stood on it, and all that happened was that I smacked my elbow on something. That made me stagger and I tread on it some more, stumbling over, and landing on the corner of one of the beds causing the leg to snap out of it's fitting.

I tried to get up, but I couldn't find the way out of the cover. I rolled about, not being able to get up because I was half pinned down by resting on the damn thing. I could hear the kids absolutely helpless with laughter. I foolishly asked them to help me out, but that just amused them more. I managed to get on to my knees, but then they dived on me, knocking me back over. So not only was I struggling to get out of the cover, I had to fight off two small giggling kids at the time.

After a few minutes, Mrs SLVA came upstairs to find out what all the racket was about and asked what the bloody hell I thought I was doing keeping the kids up. She ushered them back into bed, and then watched me as I still struggled to fight my way out of the cover. I finally got out, hot, sweaty and knackered to find her sitting on the stairs in stifled fits of mirth. As soon as she saw me, all red-faced and hair all stuck up, she cracked up properly.

She could've helped me up, the rotten sod.
(, Wed 29 Jun 2011, 23:28, 1 reply)
Its not sex thats the problem its the chuffing cats
For the last 18years or so MrsG and I have put up with a large amount of "cat nonsense". This has led to their eventual banishment from the bedroom at night. At one point we even restricted them to the Utility room but the horrible looks in the morning were enough for us to relent and allow them back into (most of) the house. The charges against them largely relate to their nighttime acquisitions:
1. Live mice - hahaha very funny that you want to chase live mice round our bedroom at 2AM when we want to sleep.
2. Live rabbits - have you heard the scream of a baby rabbit as it is being tortured to death on the floor near you? its not a very nice way to wake up.
3. Live birds - I think the phrase was "that bird seems awfully loud". Thats because it was sat on our windowsill (on the inside :-/ ); with three cats sat looking at it.
4. Cat fights. These along the lines of "I hate you and you will die. You may be another cat which lives in this house and I have lived with for years. I now find this time the most appropriate at which to kill you"
5. Cat jumping tests
a)wardrobe to bed.
b)floor to bed and see if we can miss the humans - oh; that does not seem possible; try again. Rpt
6. Dead things - the very worst was a dead rabbit on my pillow. I rolled over to discover this.
7. Live "lost" things - "scuse us be could you get our mouse out from behind that: chest of drawers, wardrobe, bed, bedside table - delete as appropriate"
8. Feed me now!
9. Wake up and play! No reason, but we're just a bit bored
10. I'm senile and need to yowl at the top of my voice in the middle of the night.
I might actually give up pet ownership - its not remotely restful.
(, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 22:31, 23 replies)
Anal Adventures in the Dark
This is not my story but a friend's that I love to tell. The last time I told her how much joy the story brought me and other people she was horrified that I was retelling it to anyone who would care to listen. Given that this is the internet and anyone could be reading it I have asked, and been given, permission to share.

If you've ever seen Chasing Amy, you'll recall the scene where Banky and Alyssa are comparing injuries sustained in the pursuit of sexual gratification, each attempting to out do the last. This story came to light in similar circumstances. I had just played my 'I've manage to accidentally get semen in three different girls' eyes' card. Lucy's topped that.

Lucy and her boyfriend had been enjoying a late night romp when the focus moved from front bottom to bottom true. Despite the claims made in Brokeback Mountain, spit is not the most lubricating of fluids and it was agreed an alternate solution was required.
Now, I've never asked why Lucy didn't have lube. She strikes me as the kind of girl to have a store of this kind of thing, kept not far from a collection of toys, but it transpires she didn't. What Lucy did have, working in the beauty industry, was a well stocked cabinet of lotions and potions, and it was to here that her boyfriend was sent. In the dark he grabs a bottle and a few squirts here and there, a bit of working it into the important areas followed by working it into the important area. It worked perfectly and, as far as I gather, a good time was had by all involved.

The following morning the boyfriend woke and headed to the bathroom. As he positioned himself in front of the toilet he looked down to find his once white penis had developed a distinctly brown hue. As he stood, confused, he noticed his palms, too, were now much browner than he remembered. He returned to the bedroom and stood naked at the foot of the bed. Brown palms forward, matching manhood. Lucy's stifled giggle quickly turned to full on guffawing when it was confirmed that the impromptu lube was, in fact, fake tan.
(, Sun 26 Jun 2011, 22:46, 6 replies)
Woke up after a heavy night out in what I thought was my bedroom.
Then I realised I was sitting on a toilet, covered in sick. It was 6.30. Wandered drunkenly around in the dark until I found my way out of the gents toilets and into the bar. Took me what seemed like half an hour to figure out that I had to turn the locks at the top and bottom of the main door at the same time and then I stumbled out of the club, setting the alarms off.
I set off in the direction of what I assumed was home and after a few minutes a couple of police cars shot past me with their sirens on. I asked a kindly passing rastafarian for directions and discovered I was walking in completely the wrong direction. A couple of hours later I arrived back at halls and managed to put my key in the door before I collapsed in the corridor outside my room and fell asleep.
An hour later my delighted hall mates discovered me with my key still in the door.
The next time I woke up I was in bed.
My bed was in the lift, as were most of the contents of my room.
(, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 16:42, 1 reply)
Another pea:
It was my first weekend to spend consisting of just me and a proper girl - she was really fit, really up for it, and her parents were away for the weekend.

It was the early 1990s. I was 17, she was 18. It was Saturday morning, and I was getting ready for an hour's train journey through the West Country summertime countryside, ready to explode out into a world constructed only of the stuff poetry and porn is made of.

Thus to preclude all this, I listened to a steady diet of heavy metal, old school punk and new-school indie at top volume, while I laid out my finest, blackest band t-shirts, and made sure my dishevelled look was just so.

One particularly riotous, rebellious song came on, and I moshed enthusiastically and gleefully around my room, tripping on a fix of caffeine, nicotine, and the sheer, unadulterated and magnificent joy of teenage hormones.

I BELTED my head against my wardrobe, causing it to fall half-into me. In my stunned haste, I spun 'round, smashing my face against my shelf full of books. This tipped several of the heavier volumes on to me, with one particular hardback tome landing cornerside into my crown, causing me to sit down heavily on my bed, where I was then steadily pelted by the rest of my books, my cassettes and CDs, the speaker of my stereo, and all the other various pariphinalia and shelf crap of a teenage punk's life.

As I sat there, surrounded by the debris, I realised that in all the excitement my cigarette had dropped onto my bed and was burning a sizable hole in my duvet.
(, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 12:51, 4 replies)
not me
...this didn't happen to me but is worth a post. Back in school we had a friend called Mark. We were 5th years so about 15 at the time and one day he came in to school and said that last night he was lying bollock naked on his bed, pretending, god knows why, that he was pregnant, in labour, giving birth, queue lots of grunts, legs spread up in the air, push, push, push, push, push when suddenly his mum walks wondering what the noise is just as he with quite some force shits himself. Try explaining that one away....
(, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 22:00, 5 replies)
Warning, this story contains a model
To be precise a 1:24 Airfix Mosquito. I was happily painting the pilots chair when I was called down for dinner. In my eagerness for noms I mustn't have noticed I'd knocked over the paint tin. I did notice it when I went back into the room though. I used up all the paint thinner and paper towels I had but I couldn't get the worst of it out.
The property we were in at the time was rented and she’d had new carpets fitted just before we’d moved in so I was imagining the deposit disappearing. However, I wasn’t going to let £900 go without an attempt to fix it. Having plenty of paints I tried to cover it with a colour as close to the carpet colour. Surprise surprise, I made it 10x worse.
In a panic I tried bleach. This really fucked the carpet up. I was left with a crusty bleached patch in the carpet that looked like I’d had one off the wrist in there every day since we’d moved in.
Our landlady suddenly served us notice so I had 2 months to fix it or lose the deposit.
Using duct tape to pull the pile away from the offending area I measured and cut out the mess of carpet with a scalpel. I then moved the wardrobe and cut out a piece exactly the same size and very carefully glued it into place. If you got on your hands and knees you could see where I’d glued it but other than that it looked perfect. With the wardrobe covering the hole in the carpet no one would know till the furniture is moved.
We moved out last month and we’ve gotten the full deposit back.
I’m waiting for a very angry phone call at some point.
(, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 16:51, 7 replies)
Not quite in the bedroom
but in the hotel corridor outside as we arrived tired, sweaty and grumpy after a long journey. Young Master 5 asks if he can use the keycard to open the door. 'Sure, why not?' we said. 'Because I will drop the feckin thing on to my foot and kick it with impeccable precision for a six year old under the door and then you will need to trudge downstairs to the reception and explain in your broken and pathetic attempts at 'foreign' what has happened to the original before coming all the way back up here whilst we stand in a hotel corridor looking like muppets' was not what he said, unfortunately.
(, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 16:42, 2 replies)
My Mum made my bed using my Star Wars pillow cases
but my Superman bedspread.

So I cried.
(, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 15:50, 4 replies)
The Pink Ages
First Post. After graduating University I still lived with my parents, who owing to financial circumstances I was no doubt contributing to - decided to move houses. I had never seen the place before the day I arrived and found the whole process a mix of excitement and heartbreak. Oh, and utter horror. You see... I was moving into a room that was very clearly previously occupied by a little girl and what followed remains the most emasculating night of my life. Worse than any drunken/medicated sexual failing I've experienced and as such I consider this to be a bedroom disaster.

The creme carpet, cratered by the legs of tiny dressers was in a peculiar way, haunting though it was the walls that were a masterpiece (or so I thought) that could only have been designed by a mind twisted by barbie dolls and ponies, for they weren't only painted a dark pink, but the must have been mixed with a golden glitter through some unheard of alchemical process before being rolled onto every possible surface. A detail that only became obvious in the pale moonlight, granting the rooms occupant with the feeling of resting within the moist mouth of a giant animal.

Something else that appeared in the absence of light was an entire universe of glow in the dark stars spanning the entire ceiling. Initially, I marvelled at the sight, briefly losing myself in the awesome infinity of the cosmos. My complaints about this room were silly, insignificant and was of no real pro... Wait a minute, I thought to myself as I re-focused my vision. They're glow in the dark hearts. An entire galaxy of glow in the dark hearts. Pulling the duvet over my head, allowing only my mouth to poke out of a hole I had left so I could breathe, I cried slightly and fell asleep. It would be over a year before I painted the walls, though I destroyed the heart galaxy over the next few days, at one point ensuring a giant glow in the dark cock shape adorned my ceiling.

During what I refer to as 'The Pink Ages' I also distinctly recall having a lady friend over for some fun, stripping her of her outer layers to reveal Disney themed underwear. The frenzy that this elicited evoked a small amount of personal concern afterwards.
(, Wed 29 Jun 2011, 10:52, 24 replies)
Bedroom Violence!
Rather than repost, have this horrible repressed memory:

Background: During my earlier years, my parents supplemented their burgeoning property empire by getting live-in students during the lean bits. The attic was hastily converted into two bedrooms for me and my sister to fight spiders in - boiling hot in summer and freezing in winter.

----------Lines of wave------------

It was summer, and baking. A young 14year old wax-chewer was stripped to his briefs, battling an equally under-undressed 'mate' (Edwin will do) in not-homoerotics-at-all wrestling. An ill-timed grapple attempt had seen me unceremoniously kicked off him. They say that with a lever and a hard place to stand, you could move the world. Well, my floor was hard, and Edwin had plenty of 'lever' in his legs.

I flew into the wall, and went right through it in a shower of plasterboard. Cheap-skate parents!

My sister - frozen and mouth agape - was somewhat startled to have her virtually naked, perky-peened younger brother sail right through her bedroom wall in a shower of plaster dust. Additionally, a shocked Edwin - lying on the floor, pumped pants equally suspicious and legs in an unfortunate akimbo position - was in direct line of sight.

She could never be persuaded I was straight after that one, and rightly so. I'd have suffered far more had she not frozen in the act of doing some sort of bizarre 'jive' to whatever dreadful song was on her walkman; these days, I'm not sure which was the more humilated tbh.
(, Tue 28 Jun 2011, 16:06, 5 replies)
Breaking Protocol - Not everything I do is a disaster..
Happy Midsummer Everyone :)

EDIT: Lol. 2 deleted relies already... MTFU ;o)
(, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 14:31, 31 replies)
Went to a party, I dance all night, drank sixteen beers and ... nearly smashed the host's head clean off.
I'd been promised a doss on the sofa at the end of the night but the host passed out on it. Being a well-brought-up young man, I decided the decent thing would be to carry her to her own bed and then settle in on the sofa. Unfortunately, she was a lot heavier than she looked and I was considerably more mashed than I anticipated so rather than gallantly sweeping her to her chamber, I stumbled a few steps across the room and then properly smacked her head into a doorframe.

She didn't wake up so I dropped her back on the sofa and slept in the bed instead. She had a hell of a hangover the next morning. An unusual blue-black hangover that spread all up the side of her face.
(, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 15:59, 7 replies)
"Look who got out of the wrong side of bed this morning!"
my Mum said to me after I'd rolled out of bed, out of the open window by the side of the bed onto the patio below, breaking several ribs, my right leg and puncturing one of my lungs...

Oh, the humanity...!
(, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 15:54, Reply)
I'm going to avoid sexytime stories, as I suspect there will be pages and pages of such.
However, one incident that happened in my bedroom has stayed with me for years.

I was about 12 and had just made a dartboard box thingee in woodwork (you know, the things that open up and give you little blackboards either side).

I had just hung the thing up, and was throwing my first dart when a friend, with amazing timing, popped his head around the door and said 'hellooo' just in time to intercept my wayward dart with his face.

The noise of impact, the sight (it stuck there at 90 degrees, square in the middle of his forehead), the changing expressions on his face as he realised what just happened followed by the noised he made as he danced up and down, with his little hands flopping on his wrists, will remain with me forever.

Once he calmed-down, we tentatively pulled out the dart, half expecting a jet of blood or an ooze of brain to follow but only got a teeny tiny spot of blood. Thankfully.
(, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 15:31, 1 reply)

This question is now closed.

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