No names.
Early 2000s. Festival of Sydney. Sydney Opera House. Balmy evening. Corporate hospitality preview event for the 'beautiful people'. Nice event. I'm an ugly fucker and definitely not one of those folk.

I had been invited to that soiree with my (then) f'friend by a good mate of hers who was a PR hack for a major hotel in town.

It was a nice enough night with [brand name alcohol] flowing like God's beard. After all, it was free!

I saw a lady leaning on the railings, looking with a wistful eye at the Harbour Bridge. She appeared to be, well, just like who I really wanted to kiss that night: female, subtle curves, tastefully attired, slightly tipsy. Kiss, and nothing more. I wanted 'lost romance' and the fantasy of nothing more for my memory. A delicious dessert for the mind. I had been reading far too much Anais Nin.

I nudged of the guys in our group. He knew just about everyone and just about everything that those people wished that no one would or should remember. "Hey - her - over there - you know her?" He glanced her way. "Yep." "Single?" "Dunno." "Game?" "Fuck knows." "Introduce me?" "Pfft - do your own spade work." He shrugged and regained holding forth with his chums and admirers. Near enough.

Wandering over to her, as she pensively watched the harbour, sipping her drink noisily, I introduced myself. We had a chat about useless things and people we knew, and how some of those people were useless things too. After a while, she mentioned she needed to use the bathroom. I told her that I did too. We made a pact to go to the bathroom and reconvene and continue. We were enjoying one another's company away from the madding crowd and the falseness of these kinds of dos.

We walked, arm in arm, chatting.

The mens' room was nearer that in place than the ladies'. She decided to accompany me. "Impressively bold", I thought to myself as other men in the place did a double-take and left quickly.

I walked into a cubicle, in the hope of embarrassing her into leaving. She barged in and closed the door behind her and kept chatting while I peed. She Waited until I finished, shoved me out of the way and then hiked her dress up and relieved herself. We stayed there awhile. Smoked a shared cigarette. Things happened.

When we left, we went our separate ways, grinning at one another as we both tried to arrive back at the function by different entrances.

Friends asked me where I had been gone for so long. I mentioned to that trusted, wiser and much wearier friend "with her", indicating that person. "Her? Don't you know who she is?"

"Ummm, no?"

"What rock do you live under? That's [name]!"

"Who?"

Her identity was explained to me. I earned the rank of farstucker, unwittingly. I also went for STD testing. Bullet dodged. That was my last dodgy shag in a bathroom at a function with a random.


She is still on telly from time to time, and I still smile a secret smile when I see her face, covered in makeup. It was covered in something else last time I saw her...

I need to eat some lemons for breakfast...
(EffinNitWit asks his tobacco where his whisky is, Fri 6 Dec 2013, 12:48, 16 replies)

Eww, you shagged Courtney Love?

( BraynDedd Natasha Kaplinsky's labia majora, Fri 6 Dec 2013, 13:08, closed)

Haven't we all.

( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Fri 6 Dec 2013, 13:10, closed)

I did.
So did Baldrick, actually.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 6 Dec 2013, 13:12, closed)

alright, misery

( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Fri 6 Dec 2013, 13:09, closed)

"I had sex in a toilet," isn't a great story,
even if it was a posh toilet.
( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Fri 6 Dec 2013, 13:29, closed)

What I'm quite liking this week
is how people with actual answers are spitting them out in one or two sentences whereas people with no anecdotes are managing to stretch their non-stories out to several paragraphs.

I don't know what this tells us about humanity. Or Australia.
( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Fri 6 Dec 2013, 14:07, closed)

You rather fell for it, again. You had the same whiny-arsed bitch about something I posted a while back.

Do you have some "I must read it, for it is written" neuropsychological anomaly?

Meh. Like I care.
(EffinNitWit asks his tobacco where his whisky is, Thu 12 Dec 2013, 13:07, closed)

Posh, mon butt.

Sydney Opera House is about as posh as the well patroned men's slash at Piccadilly.

Although it *is* more difficult to remove the light fixtures...
(EffinNitWit asks his tobacco where his whisky is, Thu 12 Dec 2013, 13:13, closed)

No, you don't need to eat lemons for breakfast
you need to tell us who she was or it's a useless story.
(username failed moderation, Fri 6 Dec 2013, 13:30, closed)

Tradition dictates that he needs to give us a clue as to their identity
It should be blindingly obvious as to who the answer is as well. The law's the law.
( Muns, Fri 6 Dec 2013, 13:33, closed)

Dame Edna.

( Pig Bodine., Fri 6 Dec 2013, 14:04, closed)

Barry Humphries wouldn't need to sit down to wee.

(s0ckpuppet logging out to reply to you if you're not careful, Fri 6 Dec 2013, 22:28, closed)

Sorry, couldn't get through it.
Hope things turned out OK for you.
( edjogs Collared doves are shit., Fri 6 Dec 2013, 13:52, closed)

With a name
it would have been 'interesting' otherwise it's just another shag-in-a-bog story.
(SpangoTheWonderBadger is brewing beer, Fri 6 Dec 2013, 14:14, closed)

Rupert Murdoch
in a wig?
( social hand grenade I was a lurker before you were a lurker, Fri 6 Dec 2013, 17:09, closed)

You might as well tell us who it is.
Let's be honest, no fucker'll believe you anyway.
(cs1ca, Fri 6 Dec 2013, 17:57, closed)