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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.

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)
slow reactions
Way back in the days of my youth, I was a member of "The scouting movement". If that does not conjure up all sorts of ridiculous thoughts of homoerotic shenanigans I don't know what will.

We used to have regular weekend trips away, and this involved staying in Youth hostels and the like. One such extremely memorable weekend was in a hostel in Sedbergh (nr the boys school (this gets worse doesn't it?)). I was woken to the cries of "urgh, aw! its gone everywhere" from a nearby bed. As this woke a few people, the person in question felt it necessary to give some details as to what had happened. His excuse was this: "I was eating a yoghurt and I spilt it".
In the small hours of the night
In a sleeping bag
I was so slow to work out what this was all about :/
(, Sat 25 Jun 2011, 14:54, Reply)
He'd cooked that night. With Scotch Bonnet Peppers. Which he chopped by hand.
Yep. Exactly what you're thinking happened. At 4am.

I wasn't very impressed.
(, Sat 25 Jun 2011, 12:49, 15 replies)
Food foreplay
Many wavy lines ago i suggested to my (now ex) husband that we introduce food into our foreplay, to spice it up a bit. He brought a tin of peas. Giant marrowfat peas. Twat.
(, Sat 25 Jun 2011, 11:28, 5 replies)
Bottle of lube was empty.
I left her in the room while I searched for more. Turns out ketchup and honey are not good substitutes. She never left the light off again.
(, Sat 25 Jun 2011, 11:24, 2 replies)
Playing doctor in the bedroom.
Did you know that male turtles dump their genitalia outside their bodies to mate? And that the tiny retractor muscle is prone to damage, leaving said genitalia unable to –er—turtle? Ever?

I learned this when my flatmate did. It was her turtle.

I myself had a hardier pet, a mongoose.

One wavy line~
Then we learned that surgery to correct the turtle’s problem does not exist in either (a) our veterinarian community, or (b) the salary range of the average twunty *barely legal* teenager.

It does, however, exist in the repertoire of Kipling, my pet mongoose. I found little Tootie in my bedroom, where he ought not to be. He was under my bed, on his back, little feet slowly waving in the air. His silhouette was reassuringly turtle-like, and I reached under the bed and grabbed him to protect him from the Kip. It took me a moment to realize that “he looks fine” meant that I was too late and he had just been given a mongoose-performed genitali-ectomy.

Or as Kipling would regard it, “lunch.”

Length, about 1cm.
(, Sat 25 Jun 2011, 10:19, 6 replies)
Honeymoon bedroom
My father in law paid for a gorgeous hotel for us to stay in London for our honeymoon last September. It was right by the famous marble arch/ park area which we wouldn't have been able to afford for ourselves. The bedroom was comfy and spacious and everything we could have wanted. We could spend glorious times as newlyweds and have all the privacy we wanted, as the hotel was well soundproofed between rooms. However there wasn't enough soundproofing externally to block out the Pope's massive evening event in the park, mere yards from our hotel. Pope, you spoiled the mood!
(, Sat 25 Jun 2011, 9:54, 2 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)
Falling Asleep
This one could've been a disaster, but ended up not so bad.

Anyway, one night, really drunk, late at night, myself and an ex were going at it. Next thing I knew, I was waking up an hour later, still on top and still coupled to her. It quickly dawned on me that I'd fallen asleep during sex.

Oh boy, I'm in trouble, I thought.

Fortunately she was asleep too, but for how long? I carefully decoupled myself, which woke her up.

"Uh, was that okay?" I asked.

She squinted at me and smiled. "It was great," she replied, and fell back asleep immediately.

So, best I can figure, we simultaneously fell asleep during sex. Suddenly simultaneous orgasms don't seem quite as exciting anymore.
(, Sat 25 Jun 2011, 7:40, 6 replies)
not a disaster but an interesting piece of trivia
Charlie Watts draws beds. “I make a sketch of every bedroom I sleep in,” he told an interviewer in 1998. “I’ve sketched every bed I’ve slept in on tour since about 1968.”

“It’s a diary,” he told Sue Lawley in 2001. “Now I can’t miss one because it’s like ruining ‘a day in the life of.’ So I just draw every bed that I sleep in when I tour with the Rolling Stones.”

(, Sat 25 Jun 2011, 4:26, 5 replies)
I just shagged the missus,
and came in seconds, and I don't mean after her. There was a song once. I think it was called 'Twenty-one Seconds To Go'.

Edit: Since then, she's brought me up a can of cider, started doing my laundry, and is cooking me some 'tato tots, so it's turned into a bedroom win.
(, Sat 25 Jun 2011, 4:17, 2 replies)
And another roasted pea from yesteryear.
Never attempt your first go at botty-mining with a lady while sharing a room with three other people who are plainly not asleep yet.

The look on her face as she waddled towards the bathroom will stay with me til the grave.

Also, your room-mates will probably overhear the fifteen minutes of begging beforehand.
(, Sat 25 Jun 2011, 4:09, 1 reply)
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)

I'm a tall gentleman and i find it hard to fit into beds without curling up into some sort of ball.
My dad being the handy chap he is built both mine and my brothers bed by hand.
Several years later (insert wavy lines) I was spending some quality time with a lady and the boards supporting the matress snapped allowing gravity to take it its hold on our adult bonding.
I got a groin strain and her arse looked like lego.......
(, Sat 25 Jun 2011, 2:37, Reply)
Wavy lines~~~
~~~ along time ago, in a universe suspiciously reminiscent of the shit-hole we currently inhabit, was a person called Cosa Nostril. Cosa was in their first year of uni & fucking loving it - booze before 5pm, blunts before 7pn & the most amazingly shit food you have ever encountered. Bliss.

One night, Cosa & flat mates decided to visit another nearby institution of Further Education for a night out. Well, that was an utter disaster. However, Cosa pulled, but on getting back to the digs, the pullee was decidedly reticent. In fact, the bar steward had me sleep on my own floor, whilst they (the complete & utter gay) slept in MY FUCKING BED.

That the pullee was gay did not hit me till I was sober, but my unabiding question is this; if the pullee knew their sexuality, what in the good fuck were they doing coming home with me???

And more to the point, what in the fuck were my flat mates thinking letting me take this obviously confused person home?

Sometimes, there really are no adequate answers.
(, Sat 25 Jun 2011, 2:35, 9 replies)
It's not how it looks!
Years ago it was, I was about 10 and my wee brother was 4 years old. We shared a room back then, which I wasn't too chuffed about and is also why I sometimes inflicted a substantial amount of cruelty and brotherly bullying onto the poor bugger throughout his childhood. All good natured you understand.

Anyway on this particular night I was having a good old game of Pitfall 2 or something on the Atari, when my wee brother woke up crying. Now with Mum and Dad in the living room watching the telly, the last thing I wanted was for them to come in assuming that I had belted him and bring an end to my computer-game fun. So I go over to his bed to find out what's wrong with him and soon realise that the poor bastard's PJ's and sheets are soaked in pish. I felt a surge of pity for him and in a rare show of compassion from myself, I decide to help him cover up his accident.

Bad move.

So, he's stood on the bed. I help him off with his sodden pyjama trousers and hide them under the bed, I then tell him to take his pants off. He tries but because they're soaked they end up all twisted and sticking to him, so I decide to help him.

And that's when Dad walked in.

Just in time to see my brother standing on the bed in tears, with me on my knees trying to pull down his underpants.

Took some explaining that did.
(, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 23:21, Reply)
Three times in my life
I have been woken up by having a cat land on my face - two of them in the last week.

As a method of waking up, it has its downsides.
(, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 23:09, 8 replies)
Staying over at an aquaintance's house
I had come in pretty pissed, stumbled into the spare room and fallen asleep. I woke up in the morning to a strange smell, which seemed to intensify as I rolled my feet off the end of the bed. I looked down to see that my left foot was hovering half an inch above a mouldy cat turd. I went to tell the owner of the house who just sighed and said "again?".

Now call me stupid if you want, but if my fully grown cat was consistantly shitting in the house, I'd do something about it.
(, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 23:07, 3 replies)
Doorbell went at 2.00am
It was my then Irish girlfriend Anne. She was somewhat pished having been out with various work friends for a meal and drinkies. When it all was over she decided to come back to mine (aww sweet!)

Anne stumbled in and demanded a snog and a cup of tea. Whilst I made the tea she retired to the bedroom.

By the time I came back with the teas, Anne was snoring gently and filling the room with odour of ingested wine and much garlic.

I got up a few hours later for a piss and when I came back to bed I thought the floor slightly cold and sticky! Aargh - a gigantic pile of puke on the floor on Anne's side of the bed!!

I was too tired to deal with it there and then and went back to the bathroom carrying my slippers. My newly washed and dried feet were placed in the slippers and I toddled back to bed.

At a more civilised hour I started trying to clear up the heap of puke, but Anne woke up and (in a very ladylike way) insisted on clearing it up herself!
(, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 21:57, 2 replies)
I was at a local bar with a partner a number of years ago
We had a skinfull as that is the North Eastern way. We headed back to my parents house where I had a number of Viagra. She nipped to the bathroom to make herself look sexy (which took some time due to the fact she was a pig) while I downed a couple of pills. I didn't realise that Viagra raises the blood pressure and I felt huge amyl nitrate style headaches. On entering the room she was met by me, all of 8 stone at the time with a raging hard on, wearing only socks rolled up to the top and wiping the projectle vomit off my face. There was spew EVERYWHERE but I still managed to mumble "come here".... Still gave her one though... slag
(, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 21:01, 11 replies)
I loved that cat.
She was a rescue cat, and stayed in my room as she didn't get along with the others. This is way back when I was 18 and still lived at home with my parents. The cat was one of three and the latest addition to the household.

There were many habits that would have been classed as anti-social - urinating on uneaten food. A sinus condition that left every flat surface in my room with a veneer of mucous, but the incident that really stands out was waking in the very small hours because my feet were strangely cold. As I woke, I noticed the smell - fetid and unpleasant. A quick examination revealed that the cat had had diarrhea all over my feet at some point in the night....

It was later that I realised it was only when it went cold that it became a problem. It must have been lovely and warm when it was fresh....

Cats rule.
(, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 20:24, Reply)
As a child,
much a time was spent in my room playing with friends. Of the many (innocent) bedroom games a classic was pillow fighting. One sleepover with a friend gave birth to the now banned sport of pillow fighting in the dark.

After five minutes of wild swings and giggling I ended up landing a game changing blow. Ya see, a pillow being quite heavy, when swung with force, tends to be left behind the fist which, on this occasion connected with friends rather big nose.

After turning on the light and offering numerous honest apologies my friend still found fit to grab my head and smash it into the solid corner of my bed.
(, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 19:13, Reply)
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)
Going Blind
It may be hard for you youngsters to believe, but not so long ago we didn't have digital cameras. Now, when you're young and frisky, there's a natural tendency to want to take pictures of an intimate nature... which is rather tricky when you then have to send them off to Boots to be developed!

So, when instant Polaroid cameras came out it was a godsend for the amateur auto-pornographer. And so it came to pass that I pitched up at the girlfriends house with a new Polaroid camera, a couple of packs of film and a cheesy grin.

The disaster came when I realised that the budget models couldn't focus objects less than five feet away. Which is rather a problem when your naughty bits are only about two and a half feet from your eyes. Thus I ended up with a pile of expensive photos of amorphous pink blobs and random shots of the flat with perhaps a foot in one corner, where I'd tried to hold the camera far enough away.

On the plus side, they were less likely to end up on the internet back then...
(, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 17:10, 3 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)
Hotel room / bedroom - it's the same thing...
[insert length joke here....]

May years ago I worked as a trainee-draughtsperson for a company that manufactured conveyor belt systems, boring as all shit but it paid quite well.

As part of my training I was sent away to one of our suppliers to be given some product training. This was boring, being shown different conveyor belt parts that I would need to draw (manually at the time, autocad was still a couple of years away).

So at the end of day one me and the other guy that had come on the course decided we'd explore the local town (Gainsborough to those who may be interested) to see if we could find a decent boozer / Indian restaurant.

We eventually found a boozer and proceeded to drink LOTS of beer, we then found an Indian Restaurat, eat far too much curry and drank more beer.

We then stumbled back to the hotel / guest house where my co-worker proceeded to produce a full bottle of Teacher's Whisky and a handful of finely rolled 'herbal' cigarettes.

We drank some whisky, smoked the herbal cigarettes and then drank more whisky. I then started to feel a little queasy but was far too shitfaced to actually move and proceeded to vomit the entire evening's beer / curry / whisky all over the nice clean duvet.

I knew I would be in trouble, I had only been in the job for a couple of months so a plan was needed.

And boy did we come up with a plan....

We gathered up the sick filled duvet and planned on seeing if any other rooms were empty / unattended, we would then dump said duvet in that room and steal the nice clean duvet for my room.

And it worked, after 10 or so minutes of carrying the duvet around we found an unlocked room, threw the sicky-duvet in the cupboard and stole the one from the bed.

Cue me back to work the following week, day 1 - nothing said, day 2 - nothing said, day 3 - nothing said. Then on day 4 - I get summoned to the Boss' office and sacked on the spot. I ask (in my best shocked voice) Why?

It turns out that the unlocked room belonged to the proprietor who upon his return to the room had wondered where his duvet was and had gone to the cupboard to see if it had been tidied away. He was a little shocked to find that my beer/curry/whisky sick had leaked all over his clothes.

It wasn't hard for him to find out what had happened as his duvet and cover were different to those in the other guest rooms, it just took him a couple of days to work out which room it had been in as the cleaners had taken it away for washing.

Hated the job anyway - I mean, 'Draughtsperson' - I ask you!

And then my mum came in and wanked my cup of tea off with her headphones or something....
(, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 17:04, Reply)
Caravan of blood
Not me, but a friend: he was overdue to lose his cherry but a holiday with his first 'proper' girlfriend would remedy that, and the popping would be mutual. Picture a small rented caravan somewhere in Wales. The young loving couple overcome their shyness, undress, and tenderly he introduces his engorged penis to her gates of heaven. And pokes a little harder. She winces and he feels a sharp, searing pain, looks down and sees blood. He hadn't expected so much, stands up and finds that it is not from her breached hymen, but from his frenulum which has torn and is spurting blood, enough to redecorate the inside of the caravan and to colour his view of sex for years to follow. And though he couldn't be sure, he thinks it wasn't until some time later that he finally lost his virginity.
(, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 17:02, Reply)
After more than a year of pestering
I finally managed to talk my girlfriend into agreeing to a bit of back-door action. All went well until the time came to pull out, when a little bit of poo decided to follow. The noxious stench of shit immediately filled up the room, and I’m ashamed to say I had to make my excuses to go be sick in the toilet. A 90 degree wash of the sheets and plenty of airing out of the room soon followed. Surprisingly enough I haven’t requested a repeat performance since.
(, Fri 24 Jun 2011, 16:39, 17 replies)

This question is now closed.

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