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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)
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My mum caught me wanking into a cup of poo in my bedroom :(

(, Thu 30 Jun 2011, 13:14, 2 replies)
Is it chocolate?
Seeing as every other story is about poo, I thought I’d add mine (story, not poo).

Many years ago when I was a student, my girlfriend and I went out on the lash. On the way out of her student house I commented on the enormous dog turd on the pavement outside. “Fuck me”, I said, “that’s a big poo”.

Some time later, we staggered back, leathered. Got in the house. She readied herself for bed and I went for a cigarette in the back garden. I walked back through the house in the dark to the girlfriend’s bedroom and plonked myself on her bed, drunkenly pulling my shoes and clothes off. In doing so I felt something soft and squidgy on my hands and toes. I sniffed my fingers but as I was pissed and a smoker, couldn’t smell anything. So I squished it some more and had another sniff. Nothing.

The girlfriend who was on the other side of room, heard me say “is it chocolate?”, and just as I brought my fingers to my mouth to taste it, turned the light on to see me smeared in dog shit and just about to lick my fingers.

Not wanting to waste an opportunity she smeared the shit on her flaps and signalled for me to join her. She later told me she’d given the dog laxatives. Etc

Funnily enough the last bit didn’t actually happen but it seems to be de rigueur this week. More mundanely, I had to strip the bed, shower and clean the shit off the carpet all throughout the house.

Length – about the size of a Great Dane’s colon.
(, Thu 30 Jun 2011, 13:07, 1 reply)
A good way to troll photography forums is
to ask which auto setting on your new DSLR you should use for shooting a wedding.
(, Thu 30 Jun 2011, 13:05, Reply)
The day I bought a carpet cleaner
The now ex wife had been on the drink with friends and she was always one who didn't know when to perhaps stop drinking and have some water.

So by the time she made it home & to bed she was totally out of it and collapsed on the bed and started snoring within seconds.

Already in bed myself I was slightly grateful for this and nobody wants a leary drunk walrus trying it on with you when you're sober.

I remember I was woken not long later by the hallmark mattress wobble as she began to clamber out of bed. I opened my eyes and was alarmed and helpless by what I witnessed.

She sat up, manouvred to the edge of the bed. Then sat on the mattress edge, which obviously felt reassuringly like a toilet seat and proceeded to pee what seemed like gallons of wee over her side of the bed and floor. She then, lay back down and went to sleep.

She refused to accept this could possibly have been her the next day despite being soaked in her own pee.

I'm glad she's gone.
(, Thu 30 Jun 2011, 12:55, 1 reply)
This one time I was really really late for answering the qotw

(, Thu 30 Jun 2011, 12:44, 1 reply)
So, to conclude:
My mate's friend once met this guy that reckoned he's slept with a girl that was into scat.

The end.
(, Thu 30 Jun 2011, 12:14, 2 replies)
this one time in scaryducks head

(, Thu 30 Jun 2011, 11:53, 1 reply)
Scaryduck sat in his bedroom and thought "Why don't we let people vote for the QOTW?"
Because it's a fucking disaster, Scaryduck.
(, Thu 30 Jun 2011, 11:52, 4 replies)
Broken Arrow!!!
1st post....

A friend of mine managed to be interrupted mid wank by his mum....never great.....however this had the added horror of him fracturing his cock by rolling over onto his bed too quickly to avoid letting her see him...apparently he had to be taken to hospital by her and she sat with him the whole way through the examination...

He says that its is the worst experience of his life...I think it probably ranks pretty high.
(, Thu 30 Jun 2011, 11:33, 20 replies)
this one time at skat camp
we didn't run out of toilet roll
filthy piss flaps covered in shit and jizz
all over her self with both hands

etc etc
(, Thu 30 Jun 2011, 11:00, 5 replies)
Bell'd Womb Deer Sauce Tyre
Seductive meal with scallops wrapped in bacon for starters, venison casserole, followed by lemon syllabub
Inadvertent insertion of hand bell into vagina during foreplay
Desperate suggestion to use something from the kitchen as lubricant for extraction
No cooking oil left
No butter left
Some scrapings from the casserole the only option
Bell extracted successfully
Followed by unfortunate prolapse of uterus, which bears an uncanny resemblance to an under inflated tyre
(, Thu 30 Jun 2011, 10:30, 6 replies)
Here I sit
Broken hearted
Wanted to shit
But only farted.
(, Thu 30 Jun 2011, 9:45, 17 replies)
A really really massive great big ploppy. All pooey and that.

(, Thu 30 Jun 2011, 9:04, 28 replies)
And then I said "candyman candyman candyman" and when I turned around there was a great big poo in the toilet bowl.

(, Thu 30 Jun 2011, 9:03, 2 replies)
And the policeman told me not to turn around but I did and the serial killer was standing on the roof of the car holding a severed head!
And a great big poo!
(, Thu 30 Jun 2011, 9:02, Reply)
This one time I picked up a hitchhiker and then when I turned around they'd disappeared.
And there was a great big poo on the seat.
(, Thu 30 Jun 2011, 9:01, Reply)
Not an answer, but an observation...
But has anyone else noticed that all the worst scat stories involve women as the main instigators? Filthy bitches the lot of them!
(, Thu 30 Jun 2011, 8:44, 2 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)
Lots and lots of poo
Not me, but a friend, let's cal him Al (for that was his name... yadda yadda yadda).
A couple of years ago he goes out one night, ends up in a club dancing with some hot girl. They're pretty pissed and all seems to be going well. After a few more shots she suggests going back to hers. Al jumps at the chance and soon they're in her bedroom having drunken fumbley sex.
The next thing he knows he's woken up in the middle of the night with a strange sensation. Kind of wet, kind of squidgy and then the stench hits him. He's shat everywhere. He gets out of bed slowly, so as not to wake his poor unfortunate one night stand and makes his way to the bathroom to clean himself up.
Once in the bathroom he starts to panic. He doesn't know what to do. The girl is still asleep in the bed, so he can't take the sheets off to wash them without waking her. He doesn't want to wake her. He's decided, he's going to do a runner, but all his clothes are in the room. He'll have to sneak in the room, retrieve his clothes and then quietly leave.
As he opens the door as gently as he can, the shock hit's him. She's awake. But not only is she awake...... she's wanking whilst smearing herself in his shit and beckoning him. He's figures he's got 2 options - Either turn and run like the clappers, or get stuck in for a second round. He doesn't know which to choose. Having ever been into scat he thinks about leaving but maybe the alcohol and the fact that this girl was a hottie makes him go against his better judgement. He dives back in. It's only after they've finished that she tells him she spiked him with laxatives. Then he ran.
(, Wed 29 Jun 2011, 22:19, 17 replies)
Dutch Incinerator
Do not drink 3 pints of Marston's Owd Roger, and then eat French onion soup to which you have added a giant croûton of garlic bread topped with melted cheese.

Unless you're single and childless. MrsScars threw up out of the window, and LittleScars (3 at the time) cried "because my nose doesn't like me"
(, Wed 29 Jun 2011, 21:35, 3 replies)
Out of the mouths of..
Single parent friend of mine dropped her 3 yr old sprog off at the traditional in attitude grandparents while she went to work. At some point in the day the dear child piped up with "I saw Fred coming out of mummy's bedroom this morning. Mummy doesn't know that I saw him but I did." Questions were asked at child collection time.
(, Wed 29 Jun 2011, 21:07, 6 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)
I was at a house party.
I had a bit too much to drink and decided to crash there. There were about ten people in my friend's bedroom all passed out drunk.
I woke my girlfriend up during the night and asked if she fancied some action, we didn't have any condoms but she was game, as long I wasn't too rough.
After a few minutes of gentle fucking I told her I was about to come and she told me just to come inside her. So I did.

But because she's imaginary it went all over my friend's back so I got dressed as quickly as possible and left.
(, Wed 29 Jun 2011, 18:46, 1 reply)
Paranormal Activity
I saw the film when it came out and thought it was more rubbish than scary (take her to a shrink for fuck's sake!).

But every now and then - particularly when I'm in an unfamiliar bed - my mind drifts back to that film, I start thinking about it, scare myself silly and end up checking the cupboards for monsters.

I still think it's a shit film, mind.
(, Wed 29 Jun 2011, 18:41, 2 replies)
In between school and heading off to university,
I worked weekends at a nearby bakery. It was only part time work, and the long and short of my duties was simply to serve customers, keep the place clean at the beginning and end of my shift, and to occasionally assist in re-stocking/counting stock. Standard dogsbody work, but it gave me money to go out and get twatted with my friends of an evening, so it did me just fine.

Anyway, anyone who has ever worked in a 'proper' bakery before will know that baking bread is a 24/7 business; the actual bakehouse ran all night in order to have stock for the following day, and this is common practise for a busy bakery.

Ordinarily, the proprietor and head baker Nick managed to fulfil the daily quota of stock each evening; however, on this occasion he had (foolishly) agreed to supply bread for a friend's wedding the very next day, so I was called in to help, despite not having the foggiest notion of what I was doing.

The evening wore on and gradually (very gradually) I began to pick up the practice of mixing and kneading dough, and we were making exceptionally good time. Quite a few hours in, and with some bravado at the pace of our bread production, Nick stuck a twenty in my hand and ordered me to head down to the nearest all-night offie and get my hands on some beer to, ahem, 'lubricate' the production process. Thirsty from the night's work, we polished off a few too many refreshments and were decidedly merry.

It was at this point, unsurprisingly, that the hunger set in. After a night of hard graft, and with nothing but beer in our tummies, we suddenly realised we were utterly famished. Now exceedingly sleepy and hungry, and with our bread order finally baking away in the ovens, we realised that our only option was the scoff a couple of the spare barely-cooked, doughy loafs from one of the ovens. Scoff we did, and with the night's work done, I slinked off home, went to sleep and thought nothing more of the whole experience.

Until I woke up the next morning.

As I woke, I realised I could barely open my eyes. A thick crust had formed in the corner of my eyelids and I had to pick a fair bit of it off before I could even see clearly. On closer inspection, the eye-crust was actually bread dough that had somehow found it's way into my system after the previous night's drunken feed.

That's what I call a 'bread rheum' disaster.
(, Wed 29 Jun 2011, 18:29, Reply)
Bed Disaster
It was the Summer Holidays and I must have been about 13 or 14. I was sat on the window-sill of my brother’s bedroom, watching as he leapt off his bed onto an inflatable bed which was on the floor. As he landed on one end of the air bed, our cousin David, positioned strategically at the other end, would fly a good couple of feet into the air before landing in a heap on the floor. We got a lot of amusement out of this, watching David fly like a crippled monkey through the air (although my mum was beginning to get slightly pissed off with all the noise we were making).

Things progressed and my brother went from a standing jump off of his bed, to a few-bounces-on-the-mattress-then-leap technique. We found that this made David go even higher. What we hadn’t accounted for though, was my brother’s bed breaking. As he prepared himself for the biggest jump yet, propelling himself higher and higher off his mattress, the bed suddenly gave way. My brother fell backwards towards me and I instinctively reached out to push him away. As I moved my arms outwards, I felt myself lean backwards slightly, and began circling my arms manically trying to regain my balance.

By this point, my back was at a 45 degree angle to my legs and I was shouting ‘SHIT,SHIT, SHIT’ as I knew what was about to happen. My last attempt at saving myself was to grab hold of one of the curtains. I stopped falling momentarily, and then felt myself go once more as the curtain pole gave way. Now, my face was covered by a curtain and I knew the landing was sure to hurt. I braced myself.

My brother slowed the speed at which I was falling by grabbing my foot, but he didn’t have the strength to save me – my slipper came off in his hand. I landed with an almighty crash onto the garage roof below the window and felt pain instantly. I removed the curtain from my head and surveyed my body. A few grazes to my hands and knees, nothing too bad. Then I felt a warm trickle on my ear. I felt the back of my head with my hand, and I had a deep gouge which was filled with grit and moss and was pissing blood. I looked at my hand; it was completely covered in head blood. It was at this point that the pain got worse.

My mum thundered up the stairs ready to tell us off about the noise, only to find me peering up through the open window, saying, “Get me a towel you fat knacker”, to my brother, who was stood dumfounded with slipper in hand. When I saw the look on her face, I knew that my head was in a bad way.
12 stitches later and we were bouncing off the mattress again, only this time, we had the window shut.
(, Wed 29 Jun 2011, 17:58, 3 replies)
I tried to be an actor's groupie
but the only one who'd sleep with me was Tommy Wiseau. It was a bed/Room disaster.
(, Wed 29 Jun 2011, 17:26, 1 reply)
The Bear Story
When I was an undergraduate, I agreed that if the college rugby team reached the final of the inter-college cup then I would hire a mascot costume for the final.

They made it through, a big teddy-bear costume was hired and I was dressed in it, lots of fun was had.

Wearing the full costume I went to visit the rugby captain so he could have a good laugh at it, I decided to surprise him.

His room in college shared a balcony with the room next door, entering through that room and climbing along the balcony would have been a brilliant way to give him a shock as a massive bear would appear at his window. Brilliant I thought and I decided to do it.

All went well until I reached his window where I was confronted by him shagging his girlfriend.

Our eyes met for a few seconds before I fled. We've never spoken of it.
(, Wed 29 Jun 2011, 17:06, 4 replies)

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