Getting a Marshmallow into a Piggybank.
She was 46. I was 21. She had Bowie-esque angled features and a body not ruined by giving birth to her son, my friend, who we shall call Abel.

Outside a kebab shop at Canon Circus, Nottingham, she recognized me from Rock City, as I had spent the night getting hideously drunk with her son. We chatted, and, as is customary in town at 2.30 am early sunday, swiftly got down to tongue-exchange, much to the joy of horn-blowing passing taxis. 'Come with me' she purred,and gestured down Ilkeston Road, where she resided, 'spend the night'. I considered this proposition, weighed it against the fresh, satisfying prospect of eating the kebab I had just purschased...the kebab was binned. I was careful to inform her of this sacrifice. 'Thats romantic', she said demurely, and seemingly without irony.

A night of passion ensued, for about thirty minutes, whereabouts the booze took hold and I passed out, still in the process of a second run, a process akin to stuffing a marshmallow in a piggy-bank. In the morning, I hastily dressed and left, happy that her teeth were still in her mouth, not swimming in a bed-side jar.

For fear of Abel's revenge, I kept away from him and avoided Rock City for several weeks, until in a fit of Thunderbird Red-inspired courage, I ventured in. Instantly, I saw Abel, he saw me, and a game of cat and mouse ensued, ducking through the crowds, down corridors and stairwells to avoid the chunky thug. Then, just as I thought I was safe, he cornered me by the Gents, pushed me against the wall, pulled his head back ready to butt...then kissed me full on the lips and said, in an infantile voice...'Daddy'.
(trumplefahrt, Tue 9 Dec 2008, 0:25, 9 replies)

My Dad
was 52.

My sister was 17.

They went out for a quiet catch up over an Indian meal.

Halfway through their meal a bloke walked over to the table, pointed his finger at my dad and said, 'You fucking disgust me.'

He shook his head and walked out.
(Waspard has your wank bank account details, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 14:31, 9 replies)

I don't have a story this week.
_{Any allusions to truth in the following are grossly misrepresented.}

Was but a boy of seventeen,
Still innocent, and still so keen,
The physics that this teacher taught,
The laws revealed, equations wrought,
The scientific method made,
The new altar at which we prayed,
The woman with the deep dark eyes,
With short brown hair and full, firm thighs,
In someone twice as old as me,
An unexpected fantasy,
I told myself this was not right,
...but why I else did I think about physics each night?

Yet one day as the class did go,
She asked, "Do stay a moment, Crow,
She smiled and said "No need to fear,
Why, no one even knows we're here."
I pondered every variable,
If we were caught, there'd be such trouble,
Such thoughts flashed by in but a second,
As her experienced lips a-beckoned,
Common sense could not prevail,
My variable resistance failed.

She climbed on me and made to straddle,
I stroked the contours, found the saddle
point between those buttocks firm,
And probing fingers made her squirm.
In a quantum of uncertainty,
Clothes disappeared quite rapidly.
Her eyes lit up as she disrobed,
My swollen, sweating, young Hall Probe.
I begged, "the pressure is too great,
"I'm going to...supersaturate..."
She smiled, "Well, let's relieve that first,"
Opened her mouth and let me burst,
And swallowed then so artfully,
My column's potential vorticity.

She did not gag, she did not gurn,
But kissed my neck and said "Your turn,"
And begged that I should use on her,
My huge interferometer.

And so I found myself a-rising,
Beyond her moist event horizon,
Trapped inside so tight a hold,
By the pull of this black hole.
She goaded me and cried for more,
As she enticed me to explore,
And find within this no-pants dance,
A frequency of resonance.
Our sinusoidal oscillations,
Hurried on a strong sensation,
Wishing it would not be over,
But soon this mass went supernova,
And with a gasp, she seemed to lift
Up on my violent Doppler shift.

And the woman with the deep dark eyes,
With short brown hair and full, firm thighs,
This psiren, twice as old as me,
My unexpected fantasy,
Just caught her breath in time to say,
"Why can't they make all men this way?"

...Well, how else do you think I got an 'A'?
(LongJohnBaldry, Tue 9 Dec 2008, 10:39, 19 replies)

‘The ‘Autumn’ years’…or ‘The Winter of his discontent’…or ‘No Spring Chicken’…or ‘Summer the names have to be changed’…

DISCLAIMER: Firstly, brace yourself – this is going to be a long one even for a Pooflake effort.

I was reminded of the tale by a post on last week’s QotW, but it definitely applies here and it’s also probably going to be the only one I’ll spaff out this week.

So gentle reader...snuggle down, and I’ll begin…

Now, (as you gorgeous people are well aware) I normally couldn’t give an airborne fuck about naming and shaming those involved in my posts. But I just can’t do it this time. I must change the names. I have my reasons…and they’re fucking good reasons…so…sorry ‘bout that.

And no…before you ask, the main character in this tale is most definitely NOT me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Picture the scene…Autumn 2007. The deciduous leaves tumbling from the withered branches before cascading onto the ripe, hardened ground. Colours entwining everywhere to create an exquisite carpet of golden and bronze…a delight to dreamily kick your way through when strolling through the park of an early evening…as the light of a burning crimson sunset scatters itself through the bare and spindly trees…

I imagine.

I wouldn’t really know, because I was otherwise engaged. The band I was in at the time were way too busy in full, utterly shitfaced flow – with regular gigs every week, money pouring in, and everyone seemingly comfortable with the putrid wank we were dishing out and passing off as entertainment.

Accompanying us on our calamitous crimes to music decency endeavour to bring great tunes to the masses, was:

Hmmm…well let’s call him…’Clive’

Clive was in his early thirties, and trundled along to almost all of our gigs. A staunch and resolute supporter of our general shite-‘n’-laziness, he would help himself to any free beer on offer, occasionally help out with a (mimed) guest spot on guitar, and pretend to be our ‘manager’ so he could use the band as an icebreaker in his blatant attempts at pulling mingers slappers ‘good-time’ girls at every venue.

One of our regular gigs was a shiteheap pub in a little village nearby. A great thing about the place was that Hootie, (our guitarist)’s folks lived about 5 minutes walk away, so we could play the gig, crash at his folks’ house, then collect the gear the next morning and continue with the heavy drinking. Sweeeet.

The landlady of the pub was…’Nicki’, a kindly old soul…with a gargantuan emphasis on the word OLD. She was in her late 60’s I’d guess, but looked even older. White haired, heavily made up, lardy, wrinkly and paunchy, she did have a glint in her good eye; and would constantly look us all up and down like the tender pieces of man-meat that we all were. She often mentioned her 'international football star nephew'*, and flirted terribly, but it was mostly harmless stuff.

So this particular evening we were playing the gig and the place was full of Nicki’s friends…with leathery faces aplenty, and bingo-wings flapping in the breeze like vein-riddled sails on a vast, fleshy dinghy.

As we played, the coven of lecherous old bags were attempting to ‘dirty dance’ – and I could almost hear their hip joints cracking as they feverishly thrusted their cobweb-strewn groins in our general direction...each thrust was making me want to gouge my own eyes out with a blunt plectrum before securing them in my armpits.

What made matters worse was that we weren’t even on an actual stage…just a section of the room that had been allocated for the band. So there was nothing stopping the crusty old banshees from clamouring up to the band, sticking their wrinkly hands down my grundies and poking their lavender scented, bone-dry tongues into my ear.

But there was one in particular…the very worst one…who was Nicki’s ‘best’ friend.

“EEEeeehhhhh you’re lovely” she would crow at me, with her hands behind her head, her knees bent, and her gammon goalposts pumping at me like a gratuitously decrepit rendition of the ‘hokey-cokey’.

My grimace was firmly fixed in place; only due to the fact that she was continually buying us all drinks…of which Clive was of course taking full advantage. As the band were tied to our microphone stands (not literally), Clive flitted in and out of the codger’s short sighted view, parading himself like a trophy that they could look at, but not touch.

The whole area honked of cheap wine, Yardley perfume…and the obligatory Werthers Originals.

The night ended on a tired, forced note, (after something like the 12th encore) at about 4am… with the shrivelled, clapped out old cacklers still clawing at us…and insisting that we carry on.

We politely refused, and did some light packing up, before collecting our money and preparing to leg it the fuck out of there.

So I could shower. And shower again.

Unfortunately, Hootie’s folks had a ‘rule’ that only the 3 members of the band were allowed to crash round their house (in an effort to prevent ‘aftershow parties’ or anything like that – rock ‘n’ roll!)

But that pretty much left Clive in the shit. Still, he was pissed up and happy, and he instructed us to leave him there, and assured us that he would ‘sort something out’.

Foolishly, I assumed that he would get a taxi.

Cut to opening time the next day, and we drag our tired and bleary-eyed bodies back into the already full-again-with-regulars pub to finish packing and to discuss the previous night’s debacle over lashings of lovely booze.

Suddenly, Clive swaggered into the bar like a wizened lothario, shooting his finger pistols and smirking at everybody.

When questioned as to a) why he was so cheerful, and b) what the fuck was he still doing there, he confidently proclaimed:

“I shagged Nicki Last Night…Woo!”

He must have surmised that the ‘any hole’s a goal’ rule applies absolutely...and his laddish instincts told him to actually boast about his prune-like conquest; imagining that he would be cheered, congratulated, and maybe even hailed a hero.

Wrong, wrong…oh so very wrong…

All sound was suddenly sucked out of the busy room as if some megsonic vacuum had been cranked up to ‘Biblical’ level.

Eyes widended, then after a brief pause which included some quiet gasps of astonishment, and the faint thud of agape jaws hitting the floor, the pub population suddenly erupted en masse in an almost pantomime-esque chorus of:

“UUUUURRRGGHHHH! – you filthy fucker!”

Because there was no escaping the fact that this wasn’t so much a case of ‘From May to December’, than a case of ‘From World War I to the Falklands’

Realising that his actions were suddenly not being universally approved of, Clive tried to change his tune a bit…”Well”, he snorted, “I did it for you…see?” Whilst desperately clawing at some sort of escape excuse he continued: “I sacrificed myself so you guys could get regular gigs here…But it worked!" He cooed, semi-triumphantly: "She promised me that you could play here as long as she was running the place”

At this point I could hardly contain myself as the truly wonderful duty fell upon me to inform him of how he had been taken for a ride in more ways than one…

“Yesterday was her last day” I told him, my face straining to hold back my almost complete joy at witnessing this supremely embarrassing event, and the prospect of the entire life’s worth of piss-taking that he had now signed up to receive.

I chortled: “She’s sold the pub, you dopey twat! It was her leaving do that we were playing! – didn’t you realise from all the banners up on the wall?”

Clive: *looks around* “Oh fuck…fucking hell…NOOOooooooooooo“

His face sagged despondently. The laughing continued to resonate around the pub as it slowly sank in to him what had happened.

But just when we thought it couldn’t get any better (or worse, depending on which way you look at it)…he must have decided that he hadn’t yet humiliated himself enough, and so proceeded to drop the ultimate bombshell…

Choking his bile back, he whimpered: “It wasn’t just Nicki…

…it was a threesome with her best mate too!”

At this point some people had to get up and leave. Grown men had tears streaming down their faces. Drinks were spat far and wide across the tables. People were losing control of their bodily functions due to a total mirth-induced internal collapse.

Clive sat there with his head in his hands, and we sensitively continued to rip the living piss out of him until he could stand no more. He would only occasionally look up to whimper: “but I did it for the band!”

My opinion on old folk changed that day. With age comes experience, I realise that now…and I only hope that when I’m that old, I’ll be able to find a girl just as gullible as Clive was that day, so I can take full advantage.

And bring a friend along.

*Oh yes, you WILL have heard of him
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 10 Dec 2008, 15:18, 35 replies)

For a second there I saw a lifetime of therapy stretching ahead of me ...
I like older men, I just always have - but only once have I feared this would end up with me sobbing on Jerry Springer (this was pre Jeremy Kyle). So, let me set the scene:

* wavy lines, taking you back to around 2001 and a fresh-faced, if not entirely naive, 21-year-old Peng*

I know I'm not alone on B3ta in admitting I have a big thing for BDSM ... and back when I was in my early 20s I was becoming acutely aware of the fact.

At that time I met a lovely 41-year-old man. After we'd both thrown a few almost innocent references into the conversation it emerged he was rather experienced. We talked frankly, he offered advice and we exchanged ideas on the pscyhology behind our desires (by this time I was rather well versed in the theory of it all, just hankering after some practical!).

He made it clear he was attracted, but happy to act as a friend and offer guidance, I was increasingly drawn to his quiet confidence, intelligence and charm. So, we arranged to meet up again, just the two of us ...

I'm going to leave out all the filthy details of what followed I'm afraid, but we became a couple over the next few months - his friends impressed by his turning up with someone young enough to be his daughter, mine a little confused, but accepting.

A great time was had by all ..... until one evening we were chatting about family, history etc. It emerged that I was adopted as a baby ... he went quiet, got a strange look about him.

He then told me that he had had a daughter when he was young and (military background) based very near where I was from.

There was probably only about 25 seconds between that point and us establishing, from a few basic facts, that there was no way it was me (over a year out and I was actually born somewhere else). But those 25 seconds of "ohmygodi'mfuckingmyfather, ohmygodi'mfuckingmyfather, ohmygodi'mfuckingmyfather, ohmygodi'mfuckingmyfather, ohmygodi'mfuckingmyfather, ohmygodi'mfuckingmyfather, ohmygodi'mfuckingmyfather" will haunt me forever.

I think that took the shine off of that particular relationship and it ended pretty soon after - but it did open the door to a perverted wonderland, so no regrets!

Length? It was juuuust right!
(Penguins_Made_Me_Do_It is a dolt ... and she don't care, Sun 7 Dec 2008, 21:36, 5 replies)

Miami Actress: Conclusion
Part I: b3ta.com/questions/cougars/post319969

Part II: b3ta.com/questions/cougars/post320702

So, where were we?

Oh yes, your reluctant protaganist had just been pissed on in a bathroom in Miami by an actress 13 years his senior who he had known for less than a week. That about covers it.

(The original plan had been the other way round, but one thing these fetishists don't tell you is how hard it is for a man to direct things when he's 'excited'.)

Ahem.

Anyway.

I basically stayed with her for the rest of my holiday. I had an amazing time.

There were times we even seemed just like a normal couple, with her added sparkle on top.


We went to the cinema, to see Zoolander. (blow job in the cinema)

We drove across to Sanibel (shagged in the sea in front of a crowded beach)

We went to South Beach (drank a bottle of vodka between us and then fucked on the sand)

We rented a video (I am assuming you can guess which kind)

We sat on her porch and watched the sun come up after being up all night (vodka was again involved, and I missed the sun coming up because I couldn't see it with my face between her legs)

We went to the aquarium (and, trust me there are LOTS of dark corners in an aquarium, you can get away with murder)

We went to Key Biscayne (where she asked me to bugger her over the bonnet of her car. I obliged)

There are many things I did with Miami Actress that I have not done before or since.

But two stick out in my mind more than any.

The nudist beach, the name of which I forget, but it's a long drive from South Beach.

I think the name was pushed from my mind by the overwhelming memory of getting a very unsubtle hand job and then being straddled in the middle of the beach with no one batting an eyelid around us.

And the sex shop.

I can't pretend to be naive, I'd been in an American sex shop before. I’d been in the peep booth. I'd seen the holes in the walls, and I knew what they were for.

I had, however, never used one until she pushed me into one booth then went into the one next door.

You know the rest, I'm sure.

And, still amongst all this were long, long nights of listening to music, discussing books and plays and films and the famous people she'd worked with (her Ronnie Wood stories I still repeat to people today), our pasts, our regrets and hopes.

All fuelled by glass after glass of straight vodka and ice.

But, and now, dear reader, if you are just here for the titillation, I suggest you stop reading, because I am going to get serious.

Among all this, she was a kind, caring, wise, gentle soul.

She was a sex crazed alkie, but a kind, caring, wise, gentle soul nonetheless.

We talked a lot.

About everything.

And this carried on long, long after my holiday was over and I was back home starting to rebuild my life from the state it had been in before I had left.

We talked regularly.

She talked to me all night a couple of times when I was at risk of sliding back.

She gave me the strength to change my job, move house, cut down my drinking and help me pull my life back together.

I shaped up, I got better.

We talked non stop on September 12 of that year. About what had happened the day before, about life, about what we wanted, where we were going

We decided we wanted to see each other again before we moved on with our lives.

Before the month was out, I was back in Miami.

Things were more sedate this time, largely because we were both drinking far less. But it was an amazing two weeks still. Another two weeks for which I will always be grateful.

I last saw her in early 2002. She'd known Charlotte Coleman (the short spikey girl from 4 weddings, who had died in late 2001) and was over for a fundraising/memorial thing.

This time we met as friends,nothing more and we parted the same way.

We'd both calmed down completely, and she told me she'd met someone.

I was in the very early stages of a relationship too.

She's married now. Living in a big house in South Florida and is a very successful theatrical actress.

One day I'll pick up the phone and say hello again.

But at the moment I am happy with the memory of what we had. How she energised my life and turned me around when I was the lowest I have ever been.

And, any woman I have slept with since 2001 owes her a debt of gratitude too.

I learnt a lot.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 5 Dec 2008, 12:21, 6 replies)

Strange that this QOTW popped up this week...
...as it's one in a line of coincidences for Thursday

You might remember my last QOTW post - b3ta.com/questions/gooutwithme/post233039 - about my first love, the Czech girl 7 years older than me...

Well, on Thursday I finally got the guts up to call.

Number not recognised...

But that evening I went to the pub just round the corner from the one I work in and got chatting to a Czech girl. As soon as I heard her accent I continued the conversation in Czech, as her English wasn't up to much.

She asked me how I knew Czech, so I explained... Turns out she's from the same town as the girl I went out with. More questions were asked, and I discovered that she went to school with my ex's sister.

To cut a long story short, the girl from the pub called my ex's sister yesterday morning, and I had a text from my ex an hour later.

She's still single, no kids, and...

SHE'S BEEN TRYING TO FIND ME TOO!

Epic win!
(SarcasticBarSteward wants to be good at Photoshop when he grows up, Sat 6 Dec 2008, 23:51, 10 replies)

19 na, na,na,na,na,na,na,na,na,na,na,na, 19
I’ve mentioned in the past that my marriage has come to an end, and I now find myself at the dawn of a new life.

At the moment, I’m completely skint, living in a small bedsit that I’m renting, whilst also paying towards the mortgage on the house I lived in with my (soon to be) ex wife.

This leaves very little money to socialise, in fact, even if I don’t eat, drink or put petrol in my car, I’ve spent my entire salary on direct debits before I start.

This has meant I’ve needed to make some changes as in a small bedsit (no room for a sofa, its get home from work, sit on bed, cook dinner on a 2 ring-hob, eat it – sitting on the bed – watch telly – sitting on the bed, make a phone call – sitting on the bed….. (I’m sure you get the idea) its very easy to go out of your mind with boredom.

Now, bless my friends, they’ve all been fantastic these last few months, inviting me over for Christmas, cooking me dinner and even taking me to the pub for evenings and paying for me to get drunk (and I love them all so much for that).

But I knew that this wasn’t going to help me in the mid-term, and so I took a job in a pub. I’ve got no experience of working in pubs – but a lot of experience drinking in them.

Anyway, I’d been working there for 2 or 3 days and was starting to get the hang of it (I was employed on a ‘have a couple of shifts and we’ll see if it works out’ approach), certainly, I was pouring pints with aplomb and getting the drinks order right, first time, every time. I am actually a good barman, having banter with the customers and making new patrons feel at home and giving them some welcoming small talk

It’s this that has led to a dalliance I would normally have refused as the lady in question is younger than me, by some margin. I am, for the record in my mid/late 30’s, the lady who made me the object of her desire was, I later found out, 19.

19

19 and gorgeous, funny, witting confident and above everything else, showing little ‘ole me some attention. I never get attention when I go out, largely down to the fact that on the rare occasion I do go out, it’s with friends and I don’t want to ignore them over trying to get my end-away.

The attention I received was ‘flirting of the highest order’ (well, it was to me anyway), she came to the pub on her own (a rare trait and one that should be encouraged in my book. She sat at the bar and she drank either JD and ginger ale or gin and tonic. Every 2 or 3 drinks, she’d say ‘get yourself one’ and I’d always reply with ‘I’m not suppose to drink when I’m working, I’ll have it later on if that’s ok?’

We get more confident with each other and I start to flirt back

She says, ‘I’m not buying you anymore drinks, I never see you drink anything’ (and the reality is, I was taking the cash as a tip – having rung a half-pint of fosters in the till, I need the money).

I reply with, ‘I finish at 11, why don’t we go somewhere else and I’ll buy you a drink?’ – a really bold move on my part as I’ve got about fifteen quid to last me until ‘forever’

Which is completely out of character for me, I can’t speak to women usually.

She agrees.

We go out, we have a couple of drinks and then we get to the end of the night.

We kiss, it lasts for ages, I can taste the JD on her lips and the smell of Marly lights on her breath. I don’t know why, but that combination really works for me.

Anyway she says ‘Can I come back to yours?’ – Now, I was more than a little reluctant to allow that, seeing as I’m living in squalor at present and whilst I can’t see anything coming from this brief interlude with the beautiful 19 year-old, I don’t want to miss out on breaking my ‘very-much-single-duck’ - and lets be honest, she’s absolutely lovely .

Then I remember, my ex-wife is away and will be for the next few days (she’d asked me to look after the dog, but I am not able to have animals in the bedsit). So, using the key I still have for my old house (I insisted on keeping a key whilst I am paying towards the mortgage), I decided in my infinite wisdom to go there for the night.

Since moving out of the house, things have changed there. I (wrongly) assumed that when I moved out, the house would have stayed the same, bar the things I took. What I didn’t bank on, was the new ‘squeeze’ on my soon-to-be-ex-wife being in the house, looking after MY dog and watching MY telly whilst sitting in MY chair.

We exchanged ‘frosty’ welcomes and I say, ‘I’m staying the night’ to which he replies ‘fair enough, it’s your gaff – what room are you using?’

So there we have it, I had a one-night-stand in the house I use to share with my wife, in the bed I used during the happier times with my soon-to-be-ex-wife, whilst my wife’s ‘lover’ sat down stairs so as not to disturb me (which I thought was jolly decent of him). The sex was amazing, the sheets were a state (and I wasn’t going to wash ‘em) and I’d had a all-to-brief fling with a lady much younger than me.

My soon-to-be-ex-wife’s reaction when she found out?

SHE HIT THE ROOF WITH ME, WITH HER NEW BLOKE, WITH THE DOG, WITH EVERYONE. At one point, she was going to call the police and have me arrested for ‘breaking and entering’ (She was advised not to do that be everyone, seeing as I own half the house, pay had the mortgage and all that malarkey.

Sadly, the complications of the location and the situation means my beautiful 19 year old has decided (quite rightly I fear), that I’ve got too much baggage and we aren’t able to see each other anymore.

I hope she’s telling the truth and it’s not because I misheard her when we were having sex and I thought she said, ‘cum on my face’ whereas she was actually saying ‘ its-not-a-race’ or that I’m rubbish between the sheets and the very thought of being intimate with me again makes her want to vomit.

Apologies for the lack of humour and the length, I’m not a very funny individual.

Mullered, skint, single and rubbish.
( JeffTheDogFucker Can you dig it?, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 17:17, 8 replies)

I have another story
My friends and I all seem to fall into this awful ability to do stupid things when we've had a little bit of the drink in us. One night we were out clubbing and having a great time, and our mate, Lee, starts pulling what looked to be a really hot girl in the smokey, dim light of the club.

It turned out to be a really hot girl and said hot girl took our teenage mate back to her flat for a night of, what was described to me as, a night of education that has stood him well for the rest of his life.

Our Lee is a bit of a womaniser, y'see and basically fucks anything that moves, so when he says it's good then you know it was good. However, he was strangely quiet about the next day.

It turns out he woke up the next day and walked through to the kitchen. He sat down at the table for breakfast that she'd made for him. It was at this point that her two kids came running in for breakfast with "her good friend that had stayed over the night because he couldn't get home".

She was 30.

He was 17.

The awkward silence of the breakfast table was only punctuated by the regular clockwork crunching of buttered toast. Now, not only has he pulled someone almost twice his age, but he also did it in a club a year underage. To what turned out to be, he found out when she was putting on her clothes after breakfast, a policewoman.
(John_Anon_Prince I have no heart and soul, Sun 7 Dec 2008, 1:22, 3 replies)

Bah...
As I haven't had sex since dinosaurs roamed the earth, I don't have much to add to this week's QOTW. However...

By a quirk of genetics, I'm fortunate enough to not quite look my age, which is 34. I could pass for late 20s on a good day. I've just been to see one of the lecturers where I work, who I have never met before and have had the following conversation...

"Hi Dr A, I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about your spectroscopy course?"

"Certainly, are you in my first or second year group?"

"Erm, actually, I teach your second year course..."

Naturally, being mistaken for a undergraduate (*) put me in a rather jolly frame of mind. Eager to share my new found youthfulness, I stuck my head round my office door, recounted the prior conversation and finished by saying "So to celebrate, I think I might go out and fuck a 20 year old."

I probably should have checked that my tutees weren't standing behind the door before I delivered that gem. Tomorrow morning's problem class could prove interesting.

fucksocks.

(*) Because as I was informed, Dr A had forgotten his glasses today.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Tue 9 Dec 2008, 16:19, 28 replies)

I'm a bit of a character
and quite experienced with women.

Well...my character's a woman and she has a lot of Experience Points anyway.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Wed 10 Dec 2008, 12:34, 5 replies)

Jims Shanty,
I banged a 17 year old
She took it up the bum
She was a randy little cow
But not half as bad as her mum!

For when I went to meet her
She sat upon my face
And rode like it was the derby
I tells you it was ace!

Then she rode my todger
This lass of 51
She rode me to a shuddering climax
Which I emptied over her bum

But her daughter didnt like this
My stoking both her and her Ma
She took offense which manifested itself
When she tried to run me down in her car!
(Vic Flange, Sun 7 Dec 2008, 9:26, 5 replies)

London shop girl
I once shagged a 19-year old shop girl from London.

We had quite a romance, actually. I took her to places she'd never been before and showed her amazing sights no-one had ever seen before. We fell out a bit over her dad, but soon patched things up.

I went through a bit of a mid-life crisis when all this shit from my past turned up, but she helped me through that and saved the day, would you believe, with a kiss.

After that I was a changed man with a new outlook on life and the romance entered a new stage. We were giddily happy, madly in love and wanted everyone to know. I didn't even mind when her ex-boyfriend turned up and came along for the ride for a bit (but I was glad when we had to abandon him).

Unfortunately, eventually, some other shit from my past turned up and I had to leave her forever. I thought that was the last I would ever see of her, so I shacked up with a young black trainee doctor from London and then this lairy 40 year old ginger temp (I was getting desperate).

Then the WORST shit from my past turned up and so did she again. This time I sorted it for good (I hope) but had to abandon her again, this time with an awkward compromise which satisfied nobody.

I still miss her. She was fantastic. The age difference? 881 years.

The Doctor
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Fri 5 Dec 2008, 10:40, 6 replies)

My first love
There was a 12 year age gap between us but I didn't mind. I had just turned 17 and was ready for new things. She helped me get out of the small Somerset village I had grown up in and experience new places. I owe a lot to my first love and we were together for almost 10 years. However, towards the end she had become unreliable and eventually had a complete breakdown. It broke my heart to end that relationship, but all my friends and family supported my decision. I sold her to a 17 year old lad and bought a Mondeo.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 14:55, 6 replies)

the day I lost my virginity
I had just turned 16 (by two days), she was 29, an artist, sort of goth/hippy, bright red lipstick, high boots, flowing dresses, lived near me and I knew her (and her boyfriend) from them being members at the country club I worked a few evenings each week.

I saw her as I got off the bus, she laughed when she saw me in my school uniform as she thought I was a lot older than my skinny 6'2" frame suggested. She asked me if i wanted to have a cup of tea and talk as she had split up with her other half and was upset and 'needed cheering up'.

Two hours later, I am no longer a virgin, my back is ripped to shreds and I am stoned off my gourd, bollock naked lying on a sheet on the floor, she has put make-up on me as I was 'so young and beautiful' (if you saw me now you would laugh at that one)and my body has been painted head to toe with images of tropical fish swimming through a coral reef, and my cock is a conger eel coming out of a crevice.

I do not have any 'scars' from this experience and to be quite honest think she - and the time - was an absolutely fantastic way to 'open my account' but imagine how confused I was on realising this was not the way most people view sex. Or the look on the face of my first proper girlfriend (a few weeks later - also 16, girl next door type) when I suggested after we had first undressed that we get baked, paint our bodies, spank each other and try anal.

Length - not long the first time but progressively better as I did it more.
(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Mon 8 Dec 2008, 14:09, 2 replies)

Coulda.......Shoulda
Back in the 70’s I had a chance to sleep with a lass that was a bit younger than me while I was away from home on business.

As I said there was a bit of an age gap, nothing too bad but I turned her down due to three things:

1) I was pretty religious and believed in sex after marriage
2) I had a girlfriend back home waiting for me
3) This lass was a bit of a tart and would strip naked whenever she had a chance

A few days after I turned her down I was kicking myself as if I had done the deed with her, the inbred villages of the town wouldn’t have burnt me alive in a giant wicker statue.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Wed 10 Dec 2008, 11:17, 12 replies)

Apt
.
Kind of apt this question coming up as it relates to something that happened only last week.

I went to church and headed into the confessional booths.

"Father" I said "I have to tell you that last night I made love to two twenty year old blondes at the same time"

The priest sighed.

"And how long has it been since your last confession?" he asked.

"I've never been to confession" I said "I'm a Protestant"

"So why are you telling me?" enquired the God-Botherer

"I'm telling everyone" I giggled


Cheers

Thenk you very much - I'll be under the pier all week


( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Mon 8 Dec 2008, 4:30, 10 replies)

ok so ill take the plunge
As you all seem to be bearing your sordid moments. Here is my shameful and never before told age gap story.

rewind to , ooh, 1997? Age 17.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Little shamen is shipped off to live with his dad who is working out in Russia. But not anywhere classy like Moscow (which in 1997 was still pretty dire), no I'm shipped off to ex communist central asia. A country which borders where Borat hails from, where cigs cost about 5 pence a pack and where the president was known for boiling the odd person now and then. How quaint.

I soon found out that compared to the locals, we were fucking loaded. Score. You can imagine the Russian girlies in the local dive nightclubs were just screaming for an exit visa and saw me as the ticket. Much fun was had while it lasted. But I digress, thats not the meat of this story.

About a year and a half into this, we realised after a few small fires that the wiring in our house was shot. Not trusting the local "its OK, just put wire in socket, he works" school of electrical engineering, dads company shipped out two sparkies from, of all places, Birmingham. So, with having some english company out there with us, me, dad and the two sparkies did what us brits do best abroad. Get pissed up, get lary and shag the locals.

One night we were in the club, dad was so trashed he had to go home, with our driver propping him up on the way to the car. The sparkies and I decided to keep on trucking. Closing time was 5 am, you see. After copious amount of the local vodka, which is more akin to perfume if you ask me, things start getting cloudy. I remember the sparkies brought over three "women" whom though my vodak tainted goggles were still dogs, but still within the do-ability scale. At this point alarm bells should have been ringing. To even detect a hint of old dog after that much voddy is asking for trouble.

There was more drinking, dancing, this much I remember. then there is a bit missing. Next thing I recall, im back at the sparkies guest house, in the spare room alone with one of the .. ahem.. ladies. Much noshing on the big chap occurred, then the beast with two backs emerged. I recall not being able to get anywhere near coming unless I closed my eyes.. WHERE THE FUCK are my alarm bells at this point? On fucking holiday in the bahamas the bastards.

When I pulled out to spray the man batter everywhere, the protestations from her were loud and many so it was clear that cum inside was quite OK. Again, where the FUCK are my alarm bells - im fucking a dubious old girl on the other side of the world in some poor ass country, with no rubber on my cock. And she wants me, the (compared to the locals) rich young foreign guy to shoot inside her.

So I did what any responsible, horny teenager would; pumped her full of it and promptly fell asleep.

Fast forward to next day. Its light, and all I see is colours and all I feel is pain. Oh hold on, eyes closed. Best open them.

OH FUCKING HELL. close eyes close eyes close eyes. gouge eyes out gouge eyes out. Memories come flooding back. open eyes again. Realise I have just shagged someone who is easily old enough to be my grandmother. gotta be 60's at least. The wizend old face staring back at me cracks a smile to reveal, in true central asian style, a grill full of gold and frankly some of last weeks dinner.

I bolted to the bathroom, bleached every inch of my body and would not emerge until she was gone. I scrubbed my poor self RED raw. As the community was so tight knit out there, EVERYONE knew what I had done. All the people at the factory, the town, the nightclubs. No cute local girlies would come near me again, even to get the chance to get that nice exit visa.

So there, thats my story of my age gap fuck. I guess I was out there on the frontier for the good of humanity that night. Thankfully the doctors have reassured me every year since, I dont have cock rot or any other such transmitted bug, which is a miracle considering the local population. Never saw or heard from her again. I suppose the good thing was the chances of pregnancy were about 0% as she likely did the menopause last century.

What the doctors cant do for me though, is get rid of the memory which will haunt me to my grave.

Those brum sparkies set me up, the cunts.
(shamen Geekius Maximus, Thu 11 Dec 2008, 7:29, 6 replies)

Jailbait, Me
There was only a gap of five years between us. But I was...14. Always have been advanced for my age. He was an unemployed 'poet' with a car
(but revoked driving privileges) who fancied himself the tortured artist. Total fucking loser. Classic Cackers. In my defense, he
looked quite like James Dean. And had an enormous penis.

So, with no transport - and my age - clearly we'd be staying in.

Having a romantic dinner was far from the point of this illicit and illegal alliance. (We did have a proper relationship, in a sense,
the term 'love' was bandied about, but time clarifies things, don't it?) This was about exploring that fabulous beast - teenage lust.

Each morning I would set off for school but then pass it by in favor of 'Bob's' house. His mother would greet me with a tight little smile and offer me some breakfast. Trust me, food was the furthest thing from my mind. More'pressing' matters were at hand. I'd just smile dumbly and take a glass of juice or something.

Can't imagine what her thoughts were about this weird girl who appeared at her door each day at 0900 sporting elbow length leather gloves, over-the knee-boots, and purple hair. goth meets Emma Peel was my look at the time. Charming it was, but the local climate was HOT, so my style was entirely unsuitable. But I was, and remain, as countless other can attest,
truly daft.

Anyway, I'd gulp the juice down - actually it DID fortify - and - make my way to the ultimate destination - the lair of 'Bob' Where, in true loser fashion, he would still be asleep. Our ritual was to get into it straightaway. He quite naturally had evil morning breath, but my prize was his raging hard-on. Whatever, have never been too squeamish. Dragon-breath was small pain in exchange for what was to come. And come, and come to think of it, come again. Thankfully, he did keep a pitcher of water to refresh us. He was a lazy bastard. But crafty. And how.

The ritual was for me to climb aboard, because he was sloth on waking. At which point, ahem, my plan was sorted. All systems go! We would spend the day doing the dirty until 'school' was over.

I was, of course, without experience but made up for this with enthusiasm. We would shag the clock around. Think the record was 10 times in one day. *Ah youth when all equipment is in best working order* We spent the hours stifling our screams so as not to startle his mother or awaken his loser brother who worked the night shift at Kmart. (At least HE had employment. But was ugly as sin. So paid him no regard).

After each go, he would inquire if I had 'arrived.' Yes, thank you. Every time. So we
attempted to be discreet. But really, what did his family *think* was going on behind that door?

Anyway. One day we took a breather or he just went to pee. Some such. There I stood, alone in his room, nude, enjoying a Marlboro - we did
take smoke breaks between rutting ourselves silly - when a short, sharp knock at the door ocurred. In my post-coital haze I automatically replied 'Yes'.

The door flew open, putting Bob's mother in full view of bare me, cigarette in hand. (Actually, socks might have been involved.) Her
eyes went wide and and she dropped the basket of
laundry she was holding. All of Bob's whites fell to the floor. (No job and his mother still washing his clothes! Classic.)

We gaped at each other an infinite second. I remember taking a long draw from my smoke, waiting for the bombs to rain down on my head.

'Maybe YOU can put Bobby's things away today', she sharped at me at last. *slam of door*

My face was red, but I just blithely finished my cigarete and got back in bed. Indeed. As if I hadn't been engaged all the day long in 'putting Bob's thing(s) away! O shameless me. Smugness and lack of self-respect were (are) not mutually exclusive to mad addled Cackers!

Up until that frightful day, his mother had dutifully driven me to the bus stop each afternoon in her Honda (US standards compact - plenty of room to store your automatic weapons) The three of us in her little car What we must have smelled like after such sexathons! I contemplate this with a strange blend of mortification and pride.

On the day of discovery I walked to the bus station on my own, my days of being driven in 'style' over. I took a short-cut through a an empty building site and my boots were besmirched wih dust. But were I sad? No, really just looking forward to tomorrow's 'installment'. Wanton hussy.

There was *some* fall-out: white plastic laundry baskets haunt me to this day. Most likely was purchased from Kmart with an Employee's discount!

Post-Script: it ended badly. He was a conformist unable to deal with my wardrobe - to him I was best unclothed. Have to say felt the same about him. Wore penny loafers, for fuck's sake. When I ditched him, said I'd just realized I was a lesbian. Don't think he believed me. Too devoted was I to his love muscle. And why not-it was always at the ready! Very effective.

PPS - years later he tracked me down to be a 'character witness' because he was in midst of trial for sleeping with another underage
girl. And then told me he still loved me!! Mad fucker. In every sense.

With all apologies for Yank spelling & punctuation.
( cackers, Thu 11 Dec 2008, 10:56, 8 replies)

Child bride
My mate,erm, "Dodger", came round to our flat once to introduce us to his new girlfriend. Proudly, he showed her in. My girlfriends and my jaws collectively hit the ground as we saw what was plainly obviously a 12 year old. "Dodge" was 27.

His first words, "no she's 18, I've seen her driving licence, go on show them...". She did as well. She had just turned 18. But we couldnt stop staring, she just looked so young.

My girlfriend went off to make drinks, I stayed in the awkwardness that was the lounge. After a few minutes talking, I noticed the childwoman had migrated to another table, and was busy playing with something, entertaining herself.

My girlfriend returned with a tray, with 3 cups of tea, and a glass of orange squash. She set out the tea, and without missing a beat, went over the to the girl, crouched down and handed her the glass. Without missing a beat she said, "there you go. Would you like some colouring books and crayons?" in her best talking-to-children voice.

I cracked up, couldnt take it. Dodge grabbed the girl and they left. We were pissing ourselves for ages. Then we called the pigs.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Wed 10 Dec 2008, 10:26, 47 replies)

I met her atop Fleshfang Spire, my time machine having triggered a causality spike from my admittedly lackadaisical degaussing of the drive magnets, which
designated an arbitrary ejection point some 66,238,003 years
BC. As I stumbled from the delivery system, still unaware of my
surroundings, I managed - with a skip of the heart - to glimpse
something gleaming beautifully to my right. An ancient jewel? A crust
of particle resonance upon a shattered reaction chamber lamplet from
my machine?

No, 'twas the obsidian eye of my newly beloved.

Her face spoke of curiosity, illuminated by the cupric effulgence of
the brilliant caldera below. Orange light upon her green skin, she
was jet black, and I was unable to discern any details save for two
moist nostrils, and a panting tongue.

"Baroooo!" she bellowed, "Wannuuuurg-hoooo!"

Again my heart fluttered. What was this melodious sound?

"Choff-choff-nuueeerrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!" she beckoned me closer and OH!
how my fancies took flight.

She took my hand 'twixt her teeth, the delicate flesh of my armpit
tearing under the strain. The agony would have been unbearable, were
it not for the occasional ecstatic brush of my knee against her
leathery breastbone. I dangled happily and wondered as she galloped
through the thicket of gymnosperms...what plans might she have for
me?

She had children. This came as a surprise, but I was happy to meet
them. I could feel their little teeth gnashing and chomping at my
extremities as I writhed admidst oversized egg shells and oily piles
of excrement. Within minutes I had been entirely devoured save for an
eyeball and four hairs. My love raised her head to the sky, a hellish
and beautiful scream of triumph emanating from her resonating sinuses,
as if to challenge the gods themselves.

And, though dead, I dreamt many a dream that night, my spirits lifted
by the warmth of dinosaur kisses and time machine dreams.

THE END.
( Digeridude Lord Wellington's Beef Trapeze, Tue 9 Dec 2008, 20:12, 4 replies)

Statutory rape and semi prostitution
So, this story takes place in 1996, when I was almost 17. I lived with my mum and sister in a terraced house. Next to ours was a 36 year old divorcee and her demon spawn child (cut up the tires of my mum´s car he did!).

It was a saturday night, and I had just come home from a night out, completely wasted, staggered out of the taxi and promptly fell down into the snow. When I look up I see my neighbour standing in her doorway laughing at my graceful exit from the cab. I shake the snow from my clothes and out my nose in the manliest of fashions and it seemed to impress her because she asked me to come inside.

Once inside I see she has company: A guy she´d apparently been screwing for a while and her mother! So I sit down and have a glass of wine with them. At one point I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, and somehow forgot to lock because in midpee my neighbour walks in and says quite frankly that she´s randy and wants me to take care of that.

I review the situation in my head:
I´m a 17yr old virgin, basically an erection with a central nervous system.
She´s drunk and obviously desperate and crazy - which suits me fine.
She may not be the prettiest woman alive, but neither the ugliest.

So basically, despite her esteemed guests, we go to her bedroom and make monkey noises for two whole minutes, because that´s just how awesome I was.

Now things started to get a bit weird (normality as a whole took a day off that evening). As I am putting my clothes on she asks: "how much?"
And before I manage to come up with a Bond-esque retort she goes into her dresser, grabs a handful of jewelery and puts it in my pocket, telling me that should be enough for my crack habit.
This prompted me to make a quick exit (without the jewelery, of course), and as I open the door I am greeted with her aforementioned guests, her mum telling me that it´s "time for me to leave". And I did.

Probably scarred me and that poor woman for a while after, but makes a great "losing virginity" story.
(snordfjord Cranky...like a crank!, Sun 7 Dec 2008, 20:31, 3 replies)

"No paedo gags"
That's the advantage of small cocks you see.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 6 Dec 2008, 1:40, 1 reply)

Then I felt his tongue on my toes and then I felt it move up my leg. I looked at how I had folded my clothes neatly by the side of his single bed. My mother would have been proud, to a certain extent at least.
[background]

After *** left and said she really wasn't coming back this time, I went a bit mental. There were several consequences of this; an STD, I think, a lingeringly tedious addition to sulphate sprinkled amphetamines (alchohism having predated this particular trough by a bad half decade or so), and homelessness. At the time, I waltzed through life with a jaunty smile and a spring laden step. (now, with my own set of screwdrivers, plates and properly catalogued pornography, I have black fear of anything; odd huh?)
So I found myself living in hotels for a while. I tried sleeping in a park, really I did. But there was just something so, so, unamusing about it. I'd stay in a hotel, pay for a week or so, win some cheap trust then extend my stay saying my cheque book had to come over from England; could I stay a week or so and then pay when it arrived? You can only do this so long and I felt the whole time a sort of edgyness which made me paranoid everytime I thought of how many drugs I had in my backpack, and the tales of brutality I had heard about the local police force.

[the end of the background]

Anyway

One spring day, the sun as tentative and as enticing as the first kiss of a new love, I walked down the cobbled streets of the old town. The plane trees were still in the gentle breeze. The people of the town milled and scurried past me warm hearted and their gossip curled around the floors of the streets, curled up my legs and sidled, warm, into my ears. An oldish man (50, maybe, if you were in a good mood) stopped me.

He asked me whether I was looking for somewhere to live

I said I was

He said that was lucky, as he was a landlord.

He showed me a sordid, lonely looking bedsit. I asked about the price. I said I couldn't afford it (probably without listening to the price first). He asked me for lunch and said we'd talk about it over lunch. So I found myself in a large, parquet floored appartment over looking some tidy gardens.

I noticed he closed the windows carefully as we went in,and unfurled the bunched lace curtains from the oak shutters till they hung loose over the windows.

And I noticed that he locked the door and I told myself to be careful. But half a bottle of hock later, my hand trembled only slightly as I lit my post prandial cigarette. I had not eaten for two days and put it down to hunger.

We talked about him. He talked about Japanese condoms (the best you can get, apparently. strong but thin). He talked about his love of MMF thresomes which he had with his cousin (typical bloody foreigners eh?). They had to go to her place out in the hills as she made too much noise in his flat, and he had to be careful.

Then he told me I was very thin, and very pale (er, drugs, duh!). He said he knew the rent was a lot, but we could come to some agreement. I remember I was sitting at the big oak table on a stool. I put my hands gently on the lace of the table. I remember how the lace felt. I was young, tired and hungry. He said he liked my feet and would like to see them.

I knew exactly what I was doing as we each undressed. Then he suggested we go to his room. I carried my clothes, making sure I rembered where my rucksack with my meagre posessions was, and, more crucially, where he had hidden the key to the door (in the cutlery drawer; people always put their keys in there).

I felt extremely stupid as I follwed him to his room. I am really ugly, and skinny and shy. He told me to lay down on the bed. I did so, face up. I wondered why the bed was single, but did not think more about it.

"There's no way I am sucking his cock" I thought to myself. "There's just no way".


I wondered if I would bum him. I thought, probably not.

He said in rather formal language that he wondered whether he could kiss my feet.

I did not know the local phrase for 'fire away' but said "sure".

He started to kiss the soles of my feet. I was a bit embarrassed on account of how I must surely stink, but figured it was up to him to complain. I felt his tongue on the sole of my foot, then I felt his tongue on my toes and then I felt it move up my leg. I looked at how I had folded my clothes neatly by the side of his single bed. My mother would have been proud, to a certain extent at least. Thinking of my mother triggered an involuntary laugh, but I managed to stifle it by pretending it was a groan of pleasure. I was cold, tense and, obviously, unaroused.

When he got to my knees, I put my hands on his thinning hair. He stopped and looked at me. His tired eyes, hung in deep bags, were sad.

"At least you know you're alive" a little voice in my head said to me. I haven't heard that voice for years.

He told me he wanted me to bum him. Then he rolled off, and so I stood up so that the least part as possible of our skin was touching. He lay on the bed, I imagine in what he imagined to be coquettish manner. You can't really be coquettish when you're trying to have sex with someone over twenty five years younger than you though. His back was to me and he scrunched up his legs so that he was holding his knees against his gut. I didn't mind the flab or the age or any of that, though his grey haired back was offputting.

As were his balls.

They looked like the skin you get on cheap chicken breasts from a bad supermarket; grey and pimply. I wondered how I was going to get out of bumming him. I didn't mind how he looked at all; I am just not gay.

" I need some more wine" I said. When he went to get it, I dressed speedily. When he came back, he saw me clothed. I said I was sorry and he cried. I tried to hug him but he tried to turn the hug into a kiss so I left. That was that.

That was about 12 years ago. It's odd how time passes.
(sirolimus, Fri 5 Dec 2008, 17:26, 6 replies)

In which a young Chickenlady gets chatted up by an older man
Many, many years ago when I was a fresh faced undergraduate my best friend Shell asked me to go with her to a concert at Wembley.

I'd never been to Wembley before so I was quite keen on seeing someone well known and undoubtedly brilliant there.

Shell was one of my 'cooler' friends - she knew all the words to every Smiths song and could recite most of the works of Sylvia Plath. Shell was cool and miserable - an undergraduate Norway if you like.

That's why it came as a huge shock when red-faced and rather sheepish she told me the concert at Wembley was…

Jason Donovan

I know, I should have put this in last week's QOTW.

Anyway, after I'd stopped laughing at Shell and her crap taste in music (this was a long time ago and I can't really criticise her - I've got both James Blunt albums) I agreed to go just for the experience of seeing a big concert gig rather than the little ones I was used to - mainly at the Margate Wintergardens - classy.

I drove Shell and a couple of other student mates up to London. We parked at Anna's house - Anna was a maths undergrad and had more facial hair than any of the lads in her year, but could always be relied upon for a good laugh.

After a long journey we arrived at the stadium and finally found our seats.
I was at the end of our small group of four or five so I had to sit next to a stranger.

The entire place was packed with raging oestrogen, Clearasil fumes and an undertone of squeaky clean sexuality not seen since the last Cliff Richard tour.

Next to me was a father with two young daughter who looked around ten or twelve years old. They jumped up and down in their hard orange plastic seats which clashed with their bubblegum pink ra-ra skirts. Their father sighed heavily and glanced over at the group of beguiling women sitting next to him.

I smiled sympathetically - although a few years off producing my own offspring I was fairly tolerant not least of all because a)this was a Jason Donovan concert and b)I was part of the way through training to be a primary school teacher at the time and it's sort of in the contract that you really ought to tolerate kids.

He took this sympathetic smile as a come on.

He shifted in his seat and angled himself towards me.

I was very flattered - this was a handsome older man, why, he must have been at least thirty-five!

We chatted about how busy it was, how many kids were there, how both of us weren't really Jason Donovan fans, how we'd both come for the sake of others - he his daughters, me my friend.

We laughed politely.

Hmm…this could have potential…. I thought.

He smiled at me.

He complemented me on my outfit (jeans and a t-shirt I think).

He smiled again.

I smiled.

We both smiled.

FFS! Get on with the story about how it turns into shagging!

Then he leaned forward and said, "Music was much better when we were kids, wasn't it?"

"Of course!" I replied and I grinned knowing that this would flatter him.

"So" he said, "Do you remember where you were when the Beatles split up?"

…..


…..


…..

"Erm….I don't think I'd been born."




He nodded and turned back to his daughters.

I turned back to Shell and Anna and made a mental note to buy industrial quantities of anti-aging creams.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 17:18, 8 replies)

I'll just pearoast this here then....
Back when I was 16, I was up at the Edinburgh festival. I'd met a few techie types whilst doing work experience, and ended up meeting most of the comedy circuit at the time. It was fucking great, going to every house party and being plied with all sorts of booze and narcotics. And then I met Mick.

He'd sat down next to me in a bar, and we had instantly clicked. You know how you just start talking to someone and everything else melts away? Well, tht was the two of us. Only one small slight issue- he was 38. But we were mates instantly, and that was all that mattered. We spent the next week glued together at every party.

At the end of our week together, I was trying to shake off a bloke who I'd snogged drunkenly earlier on and who was telling anyone who listened I was his girlfriend, and Mick was being persued by some blond thing who was adamant that he was the one for her. He'd tried to get her into a quiet corner to tell her about his (fictional) wife and three kids, but she pulled him into a toilet cubicle. After shouting for the bouncer, the two of us legged it.

We went to another bar until we were kicked out at 4am. I had a train home later that day, so we walked arm in arm around the city, just talking (still just mates here). After a few hours, he asked me if I fancied him.

"Fuck" thinks I, stupid 16 year old me has ballsed up this friendship. Because I had fallen for him so hard over the last week. I hadn't even thought I was capable of feeling this much about a single human being. And I was doing my damndest not to show it to this incredible man, because with a 22 year age gap we couldn't honestly be more than mates, right?

However, I make a point not to lie. "um, kinda" I saucily replied.

"Good. Then I guess we can be mates that fancy each other then"

(Bear with the flirting, neither of us are any bloody good at it. I still have no idea whatsoever if someone's interested in me)

We had a coffee. We walked down to the meadows and lay on the grass, and watched as the sun rose. And then we leaned towards each other and had the shyest, most gentle kiss ever.

From that day we have been inseperable. I was still at school- I had to deal with having a boyfriend older than some of the teachers, he had to deal with every one of his mates asking what the hell he was playing at. But we've stuck with each other, because there is no way I can be without him. When we're apart, it hurts so much. I never knew that I could feel so much for someone that just lying next to him would make me gasp with the swell of emotion. He's my best mate, my rock, and the best fucking lover in the whole damn world.

We've been together for over 5 years now. We've been living together for almost the same amount of time. We worked together for 3 years so that we would never be apart, and now we both work from home together. Every day I look at him and feel more in love with him, and he tells me the same all the time. We honestly can't go more than a day apart before rushing into each other's arms again. We have no secrets.

Regardless of other people's judgements, follow your heart. Because 5 years ago we knew this wasn't some simple "lets be together because we're bored". There is no way I'd be in a relationship with this age gap if I had any choice, but that's what Mick is, and I love the wisdom he brings to me, and he loves the clarity I give to him.

And he still keeps me up til 3 every night :D
( Madam Marlboro wonders if you've found her yet, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 17:13, 8 replies)

sexy secretary
A few years back when I was a budding 21 year old student / drunkard I arranged to meet up with a friend of mine in a Hoxton pub one Friday night. Amongst the various media-types accompanying him on this drinking frenzy was his new secretary who had started working that Monday. She was 34.

Being a young scamp I had eyes only for ladies my own age, until that night. I drank, she drank, I looked at her, she looked at me.. To cut a long story short it ended with us completely butt naked, disgracefully drunk, vodka bottle in hand, getting jiggy on my friend's kitchen table, in a shared apartment.

I woke up grinning from ear to ear. Quite remarkably she did too! Mainly because she viewed me as a kind of 'toyboy', but something I nevertheless quite enjoyed. She invited me to spend the day with her, telling me she had a spare ticket for Man UTD vs Arsenal who were playing that day. ACE I thought.

We got on the tube and, still being rather drunk, didn't actually click that we weren't heading anywhere near the Arsenal ground until we were on a train heading out of London! She said she had to go home first to get the tickets. 'oh.. ok', I thought. Seemed plausible enough.

We pull into the station, a small town about an hour west of London. As we get into her car and drive precariously through the lanes I look over and realised I knew absolutely nothing about this woman. Why was I in a car going to her house? The match ticket just seemed odd, as did the fact she was rushing home to meet her 'housekeeper'. It was only upon reaching her house that the truth became blindingly clear. This was a housekeeper that also doubled as a babysitter, because she has TWO fucking kids! And not little babies either. A six year old girl (present) and ten year old boy (not present).

Studying the strained look in my eyes, she begins to stammer out another twist to his unfolding saga.. The football match story she'd used to coax me back to this family home wasn't for Man UTD vs Arsenal - it was for an under 10s football match which her son was playing in! "Oh." was about the only words I could summon up in my confused, hungover state.

As luck would have it we'd missed the match but I still had to sit in the front room and build a lego hospital with her daughter while she had a shower. As I attempted awkward conversations ("So.. you're six then?") I just couldn't get the image of her mum out of my head, cavorting around the apartment naked before pinning me down on the kitchen table like some wild sex-hungry animal. It was making me feel incredibly uncomfortable.

After a short while she came downstairs and said we had to go pick her son up. Somewhat relieved I left her daughter with the babysitter, grabbed my jacket and accompanied her to the football ground. Still rather freaked out by this whole situation I smiled uncomfortably as he got in the car and we made our way to... a greetings card shop. "Oh, we need to buy a card for the birthday party." 'What?' I gulped. "Oh, don't worry. We just have to drop him off. We don't need to go inside."

Yet again, this didn't turn out to be the full truth as we walked inside a noisy, riotous kids birthday party surrounded by dozens of parents, balloons, excited kids.. the whole lot. I'm literally terrified, and as I look around the room at 'fellow' parents I notice a strange smirk on her face. She was actually enjoying this. Not only that but she seemed to be, well.. showing me off, as a kind of trophy to her 30-odd year old parent friends. An intensely bizarre cocktail of feelings I can assure you. Was I angry? Frustrated? Surely I should be flattered. Whatever it was, I wanted the hell out of there and fast! My sweating and nervous twitching ensured this and we went back to hers where we fell asleep for a few hours.

Despite swapping numbers we never met again. That was a window inside a world I never ever want to be a part of again and which, subsequently, meant all future conquests were to receive full police-style interrogation before anything further could possibly happen.
(BeardyMat, Tue 9 Dec 2008, 0:16, 5 replies)

A few years ago I had a girlfriend who was a bit older than me.
13 years older, to be precise. I was 22 when we got together, and her daughter was 11.

Fast forward a few years, and the daughter got pregnant at 15 - don't worry, it wasn't mine.

Anyway, to cut a loooooong story (a bit) short(er), I found myself after the baby was born at the age of 27 as a step-grandad. I was even less impressed at this than my girlfriend was at being a real grandmother at 40.

Anyway, it all turned out alright in the end, and the baby turned into a lovely little girl, as cute as cute can be and a real credit to her mum.

Fulfilling my role as grandad I had many occasions to take the daughter and her daughter out, as at the time she didn't have a car.

Now remember, she's 11 years younger than me, so to the casual observer we could quite plausibly appear to be a couple, with our baby daughter in tow. This illusion was soon stamped on once she learnt to talk though, and could be heard to be calling me "Grandad". Many's the shocked look I've had over that! :)
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Fri 5 Dec 2008, 14:34, 5 replies)

My 22 year-old daughter
is engaged to a bloke of 30. This doesn't worry me, but the fact that she's 5'0" and he's 6'5" does, a little.

When they argue he picks her up and places her on the nearest work surface or table and walks off.

He's a lovely bloke though and I'm sure she has the situation under control.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Tue 9 Dec 2008, 19:04, 5 replies)

Romantic dinner
At the age of 26, my friend Neil went out with a 19-year-old girl. For their first date he took her to a Chinese restaurant. They were getting on well and the food was lovely. Just as he was about to pop into his mouth a battered chicken ball covered in glistening sweet & sour sauce she said, “That looks just like my miscarriage did”.

Oh to be young and in love.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Tue 9 Dec 2008, 10:03, 12 replies)