b3ta.com qotw
You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Home » Question of the Week » Desperate Times » Page 9 | Search
This is a question Desperate Times

Stranded in a hotel in an African war zone with no internet access for two weeks, I was forced to resort to desperate measures. Possessing only my passport and the clothes I stood up in; and the warning "You can catch it shaking hands with a vicar out there" ringing in my ears, I had to draw my own porn in order to preserve my sanity.

Alas, it all came out looking like Coronation Street's Audrey Roberts, but, as they say, any port in a storm.

What have you done in times of great desperation?

(, Thu 15 Nov 2007, 10:10)
Pages: Latest, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, ... 1

This question is now closed.

God's own economy run.
In the year after I graduated I lived in Earls Court and worked for various hifi stores in jobs that varied between full and decidely part time. It wasn't a bad life but it was inconsistant in terms of income. In one particular period I had three incredibly good months followed by two months of one day a week at best with no bugger buying anything. By the end of month two I was flat broke and out of most of the niceties of life. I decided there was nothing for it- I would have to go and see the folks.

Herein lay a problem, I couldn't afford the train and even the last resort of the desperate- National Express- wasn't an option as the service from London to tiny provincial villages in Hampshire seemed to be off that week. I resolved I would have to use my car.

The car had been bought during the good months previously- a 1994 Nissan 200SX. The business of buying and insuring it had destroyed the three months money and a big chunk of cash I had set aside to boot. I'd then found myself without a pot to piss in and it had barely turned a wheel since. I considered selling it but the pride of a young man dictates I could only sell it for what I'd paid for it. It could under ordinary circumstances take me the 80 or so miles home in a little over an hour but there were two significant issues;
1) The fuel warning light was on
2) I had no means of refueling it.

Nevertheless, I decided there was nothing for it but to give it a go. I reckoned on there being a gallon and a bit in the tank (my continued experience of these things suggests they are hopelessly pessimistic) and if measures of extreme economy were taken I could get it home. With hindsight I have no idea what I was thinking. Anybody who has owned a 200SX will know that although it was only a 2 litre four pot, the fact that it was turbocharged and encouraged a thrashing at any oppotunity meant that 30mpg was a challenge and I was setting out with a gallon and a bit to do 80.

The drive itself was a horrifying affair. Gearchanges were made at 1500rpm to avoid any sniff of boost, the self imposed maximum speed for the trip was 56mph and any opportunity to freewheel was eagerly seized. I was overtaken by lorries, caravans and I believe at one point, an invalid carriage. I kept the windows up, the heater and fan off and (in the belief the it might do some good) the stereo too. In the long, cold silence of the trip, empires rose and fell and time slowed to glacial pace as the miles ticked slowly by and the fuel gauge fell towards the empty stop. I've since been on track days and advanced driving courses where I concentrated less than I did that day.

I'd love to say I made it but I didn't. Eight miles from home, the car conked out and coasted to the side of the road. One and a half gallons had got me 73.4 miles (indelibly burned into my mind on the tripometer) which I maintain is no mean feat in a 200SX. I was forced to phone my dad and confess that my gamble had failed. Bless him, he dutifully turned up with a jerrycan of unleaded and I nursed the car home. I was fed and watered, the car issued with a full tank and I solemnly negotiated a "bridging loan" with my parents and promised to sell the car that had failed to get me back.

Of course I went back to London to find my hours massively extended and business booming. The cash went back to the folks and the car had a few more oppotunities to cost me a bomb.

I now incidentally drive a diesel.
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 0:40, Reply)
Rushing home from work...
Way back when I used to do some support work with the local police force..prior to living at the bottom of the earth. One bitterly cold winter evening while riding along on street patrol we saw the number 98 flash on the screen of our nice new radar gun. Next thing I know I have been thrown around the car as the PO does a hasty U-turn, and all nice white snow is flashing red and blue.

Eventually we catch up to the little blue salt encrusted car and it pulls over. Upon seeing the driver it is a middle aged lady looking very concerned and yelling about having to get home. After taking her information and informing her shes going to get a ticket (That was some community oriented policing for you), the officer calmed her down, and we headed back to write the citation.

After about five minutes of running her through to computer to make sure she isn't a paedophile or axe murderer, we approached the car again with the freshly written ticket only to notice all the windows had fogged up. After a knock on the window it comes down and we see a very relieved and embarassed looking middle aged lady...

then we were hit with the stentch of urine.

She was rushing home to use the toilet, and in the desperation of us stopping her she just went in her seat.

The officer destroyed the ticket after deciding that had been enough punishment.

It was cold out and im nervous about my first post...so imagine a golf pencil made of raisins.
(, Mon 19 Nov 2007, 0:17, 3 replies)
when i was 17
i shared a flat with my equally skint best friend. any money we had was usually spent on cheap booze, cheap fags and weed. when it came to food, we tended to go shopping in our parent's houses, swiping anything we could get away with.
one day, however, we had run out of food and both sets of parents were on holiday. it was payday the next day, but all we'd eaten that day was a cheese spread toastie each. we needed to eat.
in desperation, we scoured the cupboard and fridge and came up with half a bag of pasta shells, 2 eggs and half a bottle of salad cream. fuck it, i thought, that'll have to do.
i boiled the pasta and eggs(in the same pan, to save gas), then mixed salad cream into the pasta, mashed up the eggs and added them as well.
desperation had led me to discover one of the best meals i've ever eaten. despite neither of us being so skint nowadays, both my friend and i still frequently make this nourishing, filling concoction.
try it, it's well good.

length? we were full all night!
(, Sun 18 Nov 2007, 23:37, Reply)
I wiped my arse with a bunch of nettles.
I was 18 or 19, on my way home from a cheap, 10 quid night out, I'd had my fill, and my chips, and now I needed a shit.
I was on the train, half conscious, holding it in, but letting the continuously generating gas out.
I lept out the train at a stop that was a few before mine (now desperate), ran down the embankment, dropped my pants, and squirted the world from my arse.

I then reached for the nearest leaf, which happened to be a bunch of nettles, and wiped my already sore brown-eye/anus with nature's loft insulation.

Ah, it stings!
(, Sun 18 Nov 2007, 20:27, 4 replies)
Drunken fry-up
Mate of mine gets home from the pub and has the munchies. Opening the fridge door to see what he can find, he sees a couple of eggs (already cracked open) sitting in a little bowl.

Perfect, sticks the frying pan on the gas ring, heats up the oil and pops them in thinking how good they will be on a butty with some red sauce.

10 minutes later, they still aren't cooking so he turns the heat up. another ten minutes and still nothing.

He loses interest and toddles off to bed with an empty tummy.

His wife wakes hime up in the morning to ask him if he knew why there were 2 apricots in their juices sitting in the frying pan next to extra thick white bread smeared all over with tommy ketchup.

Explains why they didnt cook properly.
(, Sun 18 Nov 2007, 20:24, 4 replies)
so i'm at work contemplating life...imagining how cool it would be if i were a superhero...thinking what would i do if i had a billion quid, you know, standard work thoughts.

consequently it had been months since i'd had anything even close to sex:-( compulsive masturbation and downloaded porn just wern't cutting it any more...i needed action...anything...i was desperate.

It just so happened that one of my coworkers was a purple haired(dyed obviously) beauty, with tits the size of boulders. i spent many a work shift drooling over her.

At this time it was approaching christmas, and at work instead of exchanging cards etc, we used to buy this huge board thing where "amusing" pictures of each worker was stuck on and sighned. Like a large christmas card from everybody too everybody. I don't photograph well...fact, and one of the other lasses had the great idea of making me where a dress whilst taking the picture for laughs(whoooooo). Of course like a man i initially refused, but these two girls kept going on and on and on. Each time they asked it was met with a refusal untill.....the purpl haired beauty said she'd flash me her tits if i did it. I was 16 and desperate, it wasn't exactly her lying on her back on the staff table with me bonking her lights out but it was something-remember i ahdn't had any sort of action, not even a snog in months) so quick as a flash i put on this dress and they take picture after picture...i beleive i may have even pulled a girly pose at one point. After what felt like a deade in this dress it was her turn...she did...i saw for about a billionth of a second the greatest pair of tits i have ever had the pleasure of laying my eyes on.

It lasted a second

The picture lasted a lifetime...they never did take it off the staff feking wall, even after feking christmas was up. To this day it still comes up in almost every conversation, even my parents saw it.

I hate dresses...I hate work.....and most of all i hate motherfeking christmas!!!!

argh i think i'll go shove mi dick in a blender......less painful than my many stories of embarressment. One day i'll tell you about the lil sisters knickers in my P.E. bag story.

Untill then tara
(, Sun 18 Nov 2007, 20:07, 2 replies)
There were three in the bed....
It all began at a house party where a certain female (Ms.A) was directing her attention towards me.

She wasn't particularly bad looking, but we had gotten together before, and I had vowed never to go there again.... but I was a little bit desperate. (I had been single for 2 years, and hadn't even scored since the last failed relationship two years ago.)

The night was coming to an end, and I was faced with the problem of where I was going to stay for the night. I couldn't afford a taxi because I lived so far away, but I knew I could crash at one of my friends houses. It turned out that Ms.A was staying at the apartment of a mutual friend, Liam, and seeing as I was hoping to break my 2-year streak of bad luck, I joined them.

5 of us crammed into a taxi and went to Liams house. Then we had to sort out who slept where. Liam got his own bed, and his cousin slept in the spare room. That left myself and the two girls (Ms.A and Ms.B), both of whom I am good friends with. The only space left was a sofabed in the living room, which all 3 of us were to sleep on.

Unfortunately, sleeping didn't really happen, even though it was 3 A.M. and I needed to get up at 7 to go to work. What did happen was myself and MS.A were fondling about beneath the sheets, while MS.B was right next to us. Every once in a while, MS.B would hear "noises", and turn around to see what was going on, at which time we pretended that nothing had happened. Eventually she DID catch us in the act (seeing as there were three of us on a small couch, it was hard not to), and left the room for a while so that we could "get it out of our systems".

At one stage, when Ms.A stopped sucking my face off she was nice enough to say "hehe, you're gonna have loads of cold sores on your face tomorrow". What?. "Yeah, I'm breaking out with them"(points to face). Agh! Face herpes! I already knew that I would regret it in the morning, but like the gentleman that I am (Read: Desperate), I chose to finish what I had started. I did manage to pop off to the loo later that night and scrub myself all over, trying to get rid of any trace of her.

It is many moons later, and I seemed to have escaped without any effects. Ms.B forgave me for my actions. She does get pissed off when I tell her how shit she was in the threesome (She just lay there doing nothing). Apparently, she doesn't think what happened qualifies as a threesome.
(, Sun 18 Nov 2007, 19:52, Reply)
Superbowl & Fags
Whilst (briefly) married to first Mrs. Kite, I smoked. Now we were only allowed to smoke in the veranda - fair enough. One Jan Im watching the SB on TV (early hours of morning in UK) and whenever there's a commercial (which is frequent) I leave the TV and go for a smoke. I soon realise Im having about 3 puffs before going back, so I get in the routine of lighting up, puffing a bit and dotching it out, then re-lighting it 10 mins later. One smoke would be lit and put out about 4 times - man it tasted like licking a road by the end.
(, Sun 18 Nov 2007, 19:30, 1 reply)
On a night out 3 months ago, many miles from home, I stumbled out of the nightclub alone and with just £2.70 to my name. My friends had gradually left over time so, with almost 3 hours until the first bus ran and with no funds for a taxi, I was effectively stranded.

After 10 minutes of deliberation, I realised in my whiskey induced state that there was only one option - I would have to find someone willing and desperate enough to take me home.
Unfortunately, Broad Street is not synonymous with beauty at 3am in the early hours of a cold Thursday morning, and it was a truly sobering moment when I saw myself actually considering talking to one of the throng of overly large and aesthetically challenged women in order to hitch a lift back near home, with the aim of legging it before being violated. Pity, really, as for this challenge I could surely have done with being out of my tree.

Still, needs must, and I began my approach to one such behemoth before a vision of beauty appeared in my periphery - 2 of my friends, pizza in hand and offering me a ride back in their taxi.

T'was most certainly a lucky escape, and a tale of how desperate times nearly lead to desperate measures.
(, Sun 18 Nov 2007, 18:56, Reply)
Not me...
My former housemate got hitched this summer to a guy who needed to be married to stay in the country, who she'd known for about 5 months
What amuses me is that he was so desperate to stay in this country he thought that marrying her was a good idea; this being the girl who answers the phone "Hello, this is the house of mad, please excuse me" and then hangs up the phone
(, Sun 18 Nov 2007, 17:56, 1 reply)
Scientific improvisation at its best (worst?)
I was reminded of this by the earlier post regarding checking the polarity of a power supply.

Working as I do in academic research, I get to play with lots of nice toys. The kit is usually bought from research grants, but in the last few years my funding situation has been, shall we say, less than generous. This has meant that while my salary has been paid and we've had a bit of cash for consumables and travel, the equipment capex budget has been essentially zero. I'm sure this will be a familiar tale to anyone involved in science these days.

So when I urgently needed a high voltage power supply, I was stuck, as they're quite expensive and we didn't have one. OK, brain in gear - I'm desperate here. What do I need to make one?

Source of ac signal - yup, we've got a function generator.
Amplifier - no, but I ordered up a couple of power FETs (big transistors) from RS for a few quid, rummaged around the lab for the other components, and built my own.
DC supply for amplifier - OK, we've got power supplies in the lab.
Step-up transformer - scrounged old Fiat ignition coil from a workmate who does a bit of car work on the side.
HT cable - got from car accessory shop for minimal sum.

So half an hour's work and I had myself a high voltage AC supply. This thing was great. Dr Frankenstein would have been spluffing his pants just watching it in operation. It even glowed a nice shade of purple in the dark. I was especially pleased with the fact that it broke so many rules and regulations:

1 - I had no high voltage warning signs. I used to just yell to people who came in the lab to keep clear.
2 - Large quantities of ozone were generated, for which I had no extraction rigged up.
3 - I had no current limiting. Normally high voltage supplies are required to have current limiting resistors built in to prevent too much current being drawn in the case of a short to earth, mainly through the human body. I didn't bother, so this thing was totally lethal.
4 - No shielding of high tension wires. I had bare wires hanging out the end connected to my experiment. I measured the voltage at 80,000V!
5 - As for electromagnetic radiation emissions, let's just say it wouldn't have been awarded a CE mark. Didn't hear of Radio Tay going off air, but it must have been a close thing!

It also emitted a pleasing high pitched whine (it resonated at 8-9kHz) and crackled and sparked a bit from time to time.

If get the chance, I'll look it out when I get in to work tomorrow and try to get a picture of the purple glow!

EDIT: Pictures now included. Check replies.
(, Sun 18 Nov 2007, 13:18, 17 replies)
Carpet trouble
Once when I was single, I picked up a nice girl one night out. She was a student. Anyway, she accompanied me back home and as I opened the door, she pushed past me, raced upstairs and started slamming doors, she then ran downstairs again, in tears and pissed all over her carpet. I told her where the toilet was and she ran off.

Being a gentleman that I am, I laundered her clothes whilst she had a bath.
I'll pass the time, thought I, and do a bit of research on t'interwebnet on how to get the carpet clean, hoping to clean it up before she got out, but she caught me.

She left sharpish and I thought fuck it, I'll go hire a carpet shampooer tomorrow, and went to bed.

Early the next morning, my Gran arrived. She's getting on, and doesn't have as many marbles as she used to, but she's a lovely old dear all the same.

I went through to make her a cup of tea. I tend to only drink fruit juice at home and the occasional beer and the only reason I bought the kettle was so my Gran could have a cuppa when she came round.

I came back through into the living room, and my Gran was on her knees scrubbing the carpet with her hankie with a guilty look on her face. She was under the impression she had had an accident on the carpet and was trying to clean it up before I noticed.

I tried telling her, but she wouldn't listen.

A couple of days later, a bloke turned up with a new carpet. It turns out my Gran in a fit of crippling guilt had sold her wedding and engagement rings, and didn't pay her gas bill so she could afford to buy me a new carpet.

The social services found her in a bad way and now she's in a home. The only way the nursing staff would let me in to see her was if I bribed them. So I donated them my kettle, not like I'd use it anyway.
Not really.
(, Sun 18 Nov 2007, 11:08, 5 replies)
Beans . . .
I remember trying to hitch home from Glastonbury one year (to Aberdeen, quite a journey) and it was going very badly. I was absolutely starving, had no money and was 500 miles from home. I found an unopened tin of beans lying by the side of the road which I promptly smashed open (this was before your fancy ringpull tins) and ate with my fingers. Tasted beautiful and I eventually got home 2 and a half days later.
(, Sun 18 Nov 2007, 8:56, 2 replies)
The Best Cat in Christendom
For about a year, I lived in a small one-room apartment alone, with only my dear cat as company.

One terrible, terrible week, I realized that my cupboards were almost totally bare, and I wasn't going to be paid for several days. Bad for me, of course, but even worse for poor Kitty, as we were out of cat food as well.

Now, I have one bad-ass cat. He's a stray that I adopted. He's stared down Irish wolfhounds, broken through window screens to beat on every other cat within miles, survived near-fatal asthma attacks, and plays fetch. He's also a big, rumbly-purring tom that wakes me up every morning by gently licking the tip of my nose, so I am rightfully soft about him, and the idea of having him go hungry was too much to bear.

Right. Off to scrounge the cupboards, then, for the both of us. One inventory later, and the entire contents of the kitchen were laid bare on the dinette:

* Vanilla extract
* Three cans of tinned pumpkin

And that was it. So, I did what I had to: I divided a can of squash into two bowls, set one on the table, one on the floor, and called my dear cat.

He walked up, gave it a sniff, and looked at me. "Sorry, mate", I said apologetically. "That's it for the both of us." With what I can only describe as a feline shrug, kitty dug in and ate it. Three days, and both I and my cast-iron cat ate nothing but canned pumpkin.

I bought him an especially fancy tin of cat food as soon as I got paid, and although we've both had slim times since then, I've been able to keep us in cat food.
(, Sun 18 Nov 2007, 5:16, 5 replies)
Oh god just remembered another
what with reading the post below from Red Morning Light about dropping a ticket in the toilet. Again it's in Ghana. I was living at a host family and we only had one toilet for about ten people, and since there was no running water it was decided that it should only be flushed when a poo has been done, and wee should just sit so that you dont have to go to the well every time.

Now, my phone had been nicked so I got a cheapass replacement, some old Samsung I think with a flippy thing that covered the keys. It was atrocious but did the jobs required (ie. ring, text and in this case torch). After an afternoon off at the bar I got home in the dark (power cut) and so used the phone as a torch. To do this I had to flip the lid thing and press a key. And this is where it happened. It snapped off and landed in the loo. That was full of 9 other peoples' piss. At first, I panicked. It was lost! I'd accidentally call people all day! Should I flush and then fish it out? No, it would flush away. Should I get a black person to do it for me? No that's just rude.

So I did what anyone would do. I put my (left) arm in up to my elbow and fished the fucker out. The feeling of warm piss on your skin is quite remarkably disgusting, especially when you think of how many people have gone before you. I can honestly say I felt really, really sick doing this, and thought about it long enough and would have taken longer if some cnut hadn't been knocking on the door in desperation themselves.

Needless to say first thing i did was to run out, get water and a lot of soap. Luckily didn't have any cuts or anything, so I assume I don't have any horrific diseases. I washed my hands for about half an hour and wasted a lot of water but I didn't care and would have been willing to pay for it had it not been for their endless fits of laughter. I washed the plastic cover thing for a fair while as well, and it fit again perfectly. Bastard!

To this day I'm not sure if it was worth it.

length? It had an extendable "aerial", made me look like someone off Miami Vice or something with the old brick phones
(, Sun 18 Nov 2007, 2:21, Reply)
I spent 4 hours
forging a "buy one get one free" Happy Meal token on Paint Shop Pro because I only had £2 in change and I'd lost my wallet.

And I was *really* fucking hungry.
(, Sun 18 Nov 2007, 1:48, 1 reply)
Posting from PDA - Desperation as it happens...
At the moment, I'm still at work (pauses as everyone scrolls down to check the posting time...)

Tonight I've got the pleasure of driving what we call the "p*sshead express" - the train timetabled to depart London, bound for the Kent Coast, just after last orders - so as you can imagine the carriages full of stella-victims we're carrying home.

What makes this story of woe so desperate? Imagine being confronted by a rather rotund young lady (think Jabba the Hutt's wife from the podracing scene in Star Wars) dressed in a crop top and miniskirt, with only a bottle of WKD to keep her warm. Now picture her bawling her eyes out while two blokes dressed in tracksuits have a full on fistfight to decide on who would have the honour of taking her home and (in her own words) "give her one".

I'm slightly confused on the rules with this one - does her desperation and their desperation combine and cancel eachother out or something.

I'd make a length joke here, but based on what sge was wearing, I'm guessing she'd take anything, even one categorised in the 'acorn equivalent' section.
(, Sun 18 Nov 2007, 0:32, Reply)
Any Port in a Storm
I had recently turned 19, and was starting yet another shitty job - selling insurance over the phone, cold-calling. Not exactly a life-affirming experience, but the commission was good, and it was pretty fucking easy. You could have trained monkeys to do it - in fact, looking at some of the people I was training with, they may have been giving this a trial run. The training only lasted 2 weeks. 'This is the phone, press this button to answer. Read this script, and if you are called a cunt, say "Thanks for your time." ' Not exactly brain surgery.

Anyways, one of the girls I was training with had taken a bit of a shine to me. I'm normally quite bad at reading the signs, but she made it pretty fucking obvious - batting her eyelashes at me, laughing at everything I said and following me around like a lost puppy. Only problem was, she was a complete dog. Really fucking ugly - imagine, if you will, a cross between Dawn French and a retarded Jimmy Crankie. Fucking her would probably constitute beastiality. But I'm getting ahead of myself...

When the two weeks training were finished, a post-training pub trip was suggested. Never one to turn down a drinking session, I readily agreed, and we all traipsed down the local boozer. The first round was bought, and we chatted about work, football, and other mundane topics over our pints. After we'd finished, one of the lads suggests getting a round of shots in, to liven things up. On reflection, this may have been where it all went wrong..

A round of tequila shots is swiftly demolished, followed by another. At this point, I start chatting to Claire, thinking perhaps I've been wrong about her. She seems nice enough - still ugly, but with a nice personality. She laughs at my jokes, so she can't be all bad...

Another round of drinks. I'm beginning to think my initial judgement may have been a bit hasty. Sure, she's ugly, but she does have tits after all. And, as we all know, there's no such thing as an ugly pair of tits.

Another round. You know, now I come to think about it, she's not really that ugly. Well, I mean yes, she's ugly, but not totally ugly. And she does like my jokes. That's always a plus.

After a few more rounds, I'm becoming more and more convinced that she's actually quite good-looking, and I've just failed to notice it. And her tits are fantastic. Admittedly, by now I'm seeing two pairs swimming in front of my eyes, but they both look great. And who wouldn't love a bird with two pairs of tits. I may be onto a winner here...

After another round of shots, I decide I must kiss her. Fuck knows why - I was really wasted at this point. So I look her in the eyes, lean in...and miss completely. Nowhere near. After adjusting my aim, I manage to connect on the second attempt, and she promptly thrusts her tongue down my throat, almost cutting off my air supply.

After sucking face for what seemed like hours, she suggests getting a taxi back to hers. Stupidly, I agree. The sensible part of my brain told me I'd probably regret this in the morning, but I was drunk, horny, and my beer goggles were an inch thick.

The taxi ride is a blur - I can vaguely remember having my fingers sucked. Also, when we stopped, it took me three tries to open the car door. That tells you what kind of state I was in.

We make our way upstairs, and, on entering her bedroom, I notice there seems to be a lot of cuddly toys littering the place. Vague warning bells sound in the back of my skull, but I drunkenly ignore them. She leaves me to 'freshen up', and I try to get undressed, which is more complicated than normal due to my drunken state. On removing my trousers, I lose my balance, and crash into her bedside table, sending cuddly toys flying in all directions. Lying on my back, trousers round my ankles, surrounded by cuddly toys, I begin to question the wisdom of my actions, when I hear a voice from the doorway.

"Like what you see?" I look up, and behold a mountain of pink lace and tassles, barely covering a female marshmallow man. "Hell yeah" I say, lying through my teeth.

We climb into bed, and thankfully my memory is pretty blurred from here onwards. I like to think it's my brains way of protecting itself, scabbing over painful memories. I do remember going down on her, and almost drowning in the layers of flab. Also, I remembed muzzily thinking that she seemed pretty tight, for a fat girl.

After the deed was done, I collapsed into drunken slumber, unaware of the horrors that would await the next morning.

I awoke with a pounding headache. Someone had glued my tongue to the roof of my mouth, and I couldn't work out where I was. This wasn't my room - it was too pink for one thing, and I'm pretty sure I don't own any cuddly toys.

Then it hit me like a sledgehammer blow. Oh fuck. I hadn't. Tell me I hadn't.

I slowly looked round. Oh Jesus, I had.

My movements must have woke her, for she stretched, causing her flab to ripple, then opened her eyes and turned to look at me.

"Last night was amazing" she said dreamily.

"Mmmm" I said non-commitedly.

"And it wasn't as sore as I thought it would be"

"Yeah...wait a minute, what?"

"Well, you know, I'd always heard your first time was supposed to be painful."

"Your first time? First time having sex? You mean you're a virgin?"

"Well, not any more, silly. And you were great! So, what do you want to do today?"

Oh holy fuck. Holy fucking cunting Jesus fuck. This was not good.

"Emmmm, well, I've got to kind of, um, go. Yeah, I need to get home. Pretty quick in fact. I'm running late, actually. So I'd better, you know, go. Like, now." As I was gibbering, I had sprung out of bed and was dressing as quickly as humanly possible.

"Why? What do you have to do?"

I paused. I was too hungover to think quickly.

"Oh, well, um, I've got to...uh...go to...church. Yeah, I've got to go to church."

"Oh, okay. So will I see you again?"

"Sure - I'll call you"

I rushed out her room, still doing up my trousers, before she remembered I didn't have her number. As I pulled up the zip, I looked up and saw a naked middle aged man staring at me, open-mouthed. Holy shit, she still lived with her parents. This was not good. He looked at me, and I could tell he was still half asleep. Thinking quickly, I gave him a warm smile, said, "Morning" and marched past him and down the stairs. I grabbed my shoes and high-tailed it out the door before he came to his senses and tried to crucify me for deflowering his daughter.

I called a taxi, then caught a train, and eventually made it home, whereupon I headed straight for the shower and didn't emerge until I had scrubbed every last inch of my body. Jesus, that was bad. But at least it was over until Monday. Or so I thought...

You see, at some point the previous night, in a burst of drunken idiocy I had given her my mobile number. The first text came through after I had stepped out the shower. 'Hey, still thinking of you xxx'

"Shit" I thought. "I'd better let her down gently"

So I texted her back, 'Listen, you're a great girl, but I'm not really looking for a relationship right now. Hope you understand'

She texted back 5 minutes later. 'I'm not looking for a relationship either. How about we just keep it casual? xxx'

Hmmm, she's not quite getting it. So I texted back, 'Actually, I'm kind of seeing someone just now. Should have said earlier - sorry' (This was a lie - I just wanted rid of this girl)

"That should do it" thinks I, until another text comes through 10 minutes later. 'That's okay - it can be our little secret xxx'

A bit annoyed by this stage, I text back 'Look, I'm sorry, but we can't do this. It was a drunken mistake.' I can't really be any more clear with her. Hopefully she'll...what's this? Another text. Oh fuck.

'But I think I'm in love with you'

Great. Fucking great. Now, I'm really not an evil person, but I knew I would have to be pretty harsh with her if I didn't want to have a stalker on my hands. So I sent back a message saying 'Look, I don't fancy you, I was blind drunk last night, and if I was sober I never would have slept with you.'

I felt like a prick once I'd sent it, but I didn't get any more texts through. Result.

It turns out she phoned in sick on Monday, and didn't come back to work. I do feel really bad about that. But, at the end of the day, I did give her a shag she would never have gotten otherwise.

In a way, it's almost like charity work. Giving to the needy and all that.

I'm practically a saint...
(, Sat 17 Nov 2007, 23:56, 4 replies)
tangy cuppa?
a few years ago, when I was at uni, I met this guy who had his own house and everything. we seemed to be getting on OK and on our first real date he took me out for a night on the piss. things progressed as the alcohol levels increased and when the pubs shut ( the bad old days of 11pm closing ),he asked if I fancied going on to a club.....or back to his place for a coffee etc......
we were getting quite snuggly and cuddly...so...back to his place it was.
off to taxi rank...as usual taxi/punter ratio wasn't good.....huge queue...very few taxi's.
by this time all the cider I had been drinking all night was working it's way through me.
being a bit embarrassed about showing my need to pee, I just clamped my thighs together and tried not to jiggle about too much.
eventually we got our cab....and thankfully it wasn't too long before we were dropped off at his door.
by now, I really needed to pee, and I had to hold myself a few times as he fumbled for the key in the lock.
ahh....a gentleman... I thought as he opened the door...turned on the light, and ushered me inside ahead of him.
I saw a frosted glass door at the top of the stairs...excused myself and darted up the stairs.
opened the door....fuck!!....it's a bedroom!
turned around....three more doors on landing...tried the nearest..door was open...looked in....could see computer and bookshelves...fuck!!
was really having to hold myself by now.
ran up to far end of landing..opened door
fuck fuck fuck....another bedroom!!..obviously master bedroom...looked around hoping for en-suite....no luck!!
was bent over double in pain by now...couldn't ever remember being so desperate for a pee ever before!!
had undone top of jeans and zip part down to reduce pressure on bladder.
one last door....not looking good!...opened door ( body contorted )...fucking store cupboard!!!....looked for a bucket!! anything!!
voice from downstairs...."it's down here through the kitchen!"
it was too late....FAR TOO LATE!!!
I was wetting my knickers!!
I ran down the stairs..tears running down my face...pee running down my legs!
he was standing by the door to the living room
"you OK?" he said
"fucking bastard!" I replied...as I continued to puddle the carpet...
then he looked down at the damage, and his face changed....." my NEW carpet!!"
that was it!!....I screamed at him and ran off through the kitchen to the bathroom
I locked the door and plonked myself on the toilet...I was soaked!!...peeled the wet things off..tap on door..."FUCK OFF!!"
couple of minutes later...note under door...could I pass wet clothes out....he would put in washer..which i did
had bath....used ALL his towels!!
had calmed down a bit...so wrapped in towels..went to find him
washing machine was on drying cycle (good)
living room carpet was covered in kitchen towel (bad)
no sign of him
followed trail of kitchen roll up stairs
could hear activity in computer room
went in...he was on computer
I could really have done with a big hug at that time
looked over his shoulder
he was doing an internet search for the best way to get PISS OUT OF CARPETS!!!
he turned round and said that he thought he had found a specialist cleaner that I could phone in the morning!!!
I can't remember the exact words that I screamed at him...but he looked shocked!
I ran down the stairs..he didn't follow
retrieved my jeans and knickers from the washer and phoned a cab
as a parting gesture.....I peed in his electric kettle!!
hope he enjoyed a tangy cuppa in the morning!!
(, Sat 17 Nov 2007, 23:41, 10 replies)
I'm just a two bit whore...
Regular QOTWeekers will notice a common theme in many of my postings. That being that I am monumentally, catastrophically bad when it comes to matters of lurve. In my 33 years on this planet I have rarely had anything approaching what could be described as a functional relationship with anyone of the opposite sex. My current status, of having been single for 7 years after a 6 year relationship with someone who I saw a total of 5 times during the last 3 years of that relationship typifies just how bad I am. Lest you think I’m sat here with a bottle of cheap scotch, about to reach for the paracetemol, I’m not. I’m a nice person. I’m friendly, funny, not a minger, it’s just that something happens to me whenever I’m in the company of someone who I really like that makes me do stupid things.

And this can best be exemplified by the night I went for a drink with Huw. Not his real name, I don’t see why my shame should cause him any more embarrassment than I already did. Huw was working in my lab during my PhD. His supervisor was having some marital issues and wasn’t really around to look after him, and as her and I were good friends, she asked could I step in, which I did gladly, as Huw was 6’2”, with a lilting welsh accent and was so pretty he made my eyes hurt. He was funny and, boy, was he smart. Huw liked me, I could tell, we would spend more and more time together each day, having lunch and coffee with each other, working late, giggling over nothing. People in the lab were starting to notice and Simon, one of the post docs, told me to just go for it. So when Huw asked me out for a drink one night, I jumped at the chance.

I should have known something was awry when he asked me to meet in the local Wetherspoons. Neither of us are Wetherspoons types; I’m a pint and a games of darts kind of girl. But I agreed and we sat at our table, surrounded by undergrads all racing each other through jugs of vodka red bull. Huw seemed nervous, on edge. He was distracted and kept changing the topic halfway through sentences. I was nervous too and his behaviour was making me more so. So I was drinking way faster than I would do normally, the consequence of which was, by nine pm, I was drunk. Shitfaced. With the confidence that can only come from two bottles of cat’s piss chardonnay, I started to flirt. I complimented him every way I knew how, smiled, flicked my hair, but nothing. I became increasingly more outrageous and suggestive, hoping to get a rise out him (stop sniggering at the back, you know what I mean). Then the conversation went something like this…

“Huw, we should get out of here. Maybe somewhere a little quieter…”
“Rakky, we’re good friends, aren’t we? I can talk to you like no one else”
“I’ve got some wine at my place, why don’t we go there?”
“There’s something I need to tell you…”
“My flatmates are out, we’d have the place to ourselves…”
“I really need to get this off my chest…”
“We could, you know, take this further…”
“I haven’t told anyone this…”
“Huw, I find you really attractive, and cards on the table, I really want to sleep with you.”
“I guess I’ve known for sometime now that…”
“Or if not sex, maybe just a blow job..”
“Well, that I’m gay.”

Silence. Not just from me but from the surrounding five tables. You see, I’m not a dainty girl, less so when pissed. I could win a shouting competition against Brian Blessed with a foghorn. And I’d just announced to 20 total strangers that I was so desperate for a shag that I’d basically offered a gay man a blow job.

Everyone began to laugh. The ground didn’t swallow me up as I’d hoped and as Huw’s pretty face swum before my teary eyes, I did what any self respecting girl would do in this situation. I ran.

The next day, hungover and devastated I crawled into work to have to tell everyone that I’d not just crashed and burned, but that I’d doused myself in kerosene then lit a cigarette. And I couldn't tell anyone the real reason as Huw wasn’t ready to come out…

He came and found me, curled up in the foetal position, put his arm round me, and said “Rakky, you’re a fuckwit. And if it wasn’t for the fact that I prefer cock, I’d marry you.”

That to this day is possibly one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me. Isn’t life strange?

Huw and I remain good friends. He aced his degree and went on to med school. I coached him through his interview, wrote references for him, held him when he cried like his heart would break when his first boyfriend left him and wept like a proud mother when he told me about the first time he delivered a baby on his own.

And what speciality did my wonderful Huw decide to go for, is he saving lives as a heart surgeon, restoring the faces of the disfigured in plastics, maybe leading a team at the cutting edge of HIV research?

He’s a gynaenocolgist.

So much for preferring cock…
(, Sat 17 Nov 2007, 22:56, 15 replies)
It's tea Jim, but not as we know it.
When I was a young skinny youth with hair, the house I lived always had dope about. Most of us rolled Js, but one guy couldn't take tobacco so he would stick a nail through a piece of lino, stick a small chunk of resin on it, and touch it off with a lighter, catching the smoke with a glass. He'd lift the glass and suck the smoke.

Then there was a famine. I came home one day to find the guys busy cooking up Mat's (for such was not his name) piece of lino in a saucepan.

Fuck it was evil. Fuck it was strong.
(, Sat 17 Nov 2007, 20:04, Reply)
We were robbed
Desperation? Jesus. After watching the Scotland Vs Italy game, I could write a fucking novel on desperation.

We came so close - sooo fucking close. The ref really didn't do us any favours. The free kick in the 90th minute should have been ours, and there was a definite hand ball in the first half that would've given us a penalty, if the ref had been to Specsavers before the game. At the very least, we deserved a draw. Fucking cunting referee.

In saying that, Barry Ferguson's goal to bring us level may have been offside, so it's swings and roundabouts I suppose. Or at least it would have been, had we walked away with a draw.

But we didn't. We lost, and I'm fucking gutted. I actually believed we could do it. I have never been more desperate for a goal in my life.

Ach well, at least we'll be ready for the World Cup. Only 3 years to go...

P.S I realise the Israel Vs Russia game is being played as I type this, and this may be the drink talking, but I sincerely hope Israel manage a win. I still fucking hate the England team, but it would be good to have at least part of the UK celebrating tonight
(, Sat 17 Nov 2007, 19:34, 7 replies)
Not me but.............
while at this year's excellent Latitude Festival I witnessed something which most certainly fits the question theme.

After a fun first night of drinking and watching Hitchcock with a live orchestra the next morning me and my mates trotted to the bogs to divest the contents of our bowels and bladders. Now to save me the trouble of describing these toilets someone (not me by christ!) helpfully took a video and posted it on You Tube: www.youtube.com/watch?v=DqrihaHEJ80

Pretty grim eh?!!

Anyway back to the story. I was getting down to business when I heard an unmistakenly high pitched scream coming from a girl in the same toilet block as myself. What prompted this anguish? Had the girl opened one of the toilet doors to find some spotty indie kid in mid-bowel evacuation? Nope, as she told her friend/compatriot/complete stranger in the next cubicle "i've fuckin' dropped my ticket down the loo!". At Latitude you could get into the campsite with your ticket but had to exchange this for a wristband to get into the festival arena.

"Gutted" think I and upon leaving the toilets stroll back to meet my mates. They too had heard the girl's lamentations and we all had a good chuckle.

What topped the story though happened a couple of minutes later when we saw the same girl run past us, mop in hand, presumably to fish her ticket out of the stinky mire.

Click "I like this" if you think this was a pretty desperate act for her to commit.
(, Sat 17 Nov 2007, 17:33, 2 replies)
My mate while drunk.....
deperately needed a big ole poo. So he proceeded to break into someones house by climbing one of the drains to get through a open window, and left a big one in their toilet.

Lovely of him
(, Sat 17 Nov 2007, 17:17, Reply)
Shagged a guy with one testicle
... who cried after sex.
About only having one testicle.
(, Sat 17 Nov 2007, 16:46, 3 replies)
Improvised wanking machine
At the tender age of 15 I had just discovered the joys of successful masturbation (I had spent a year prior wanking with no end result due to a small attention sp..) and was loving myself as often as physically possible and desperate for differing ways in which I could express my love.

My mum had recently bought a second hand "vibrating belt machine" - you know the kind, one of those old fashioned sort where you stand up and wrap the belt around your midriff and lean back and let the machine vibrate your lard arse away. I had tried it under supervision from my mother and found it had a rather pleasant effect on my nether regions.

(something like this: ebadminton.stores.yahoo.net/masmac.html)

I waited till my parents had gone out and rushed upstairs to their bedroom where the machine was situated, got naked and wrapped the belt around me, across my now hard-desperate-for-some-loving cock and switched on the machine.

Take a banana, grip the bottom and hold vertically. Now briskly shake side to side and you'll get the idea. The vibrating belt was violently vibrating my cock in a way I hadn't felt before, causing the foreskin to flap about like a flag in a windtunnel.

The intensity of the feeling took me by surprise and before I knew it, in the style of Jackson Pollack I was spraying machine-accelerated jism left and right in a wide arc, spattering it all over the walls, dressing table, mirror, window, chinzy curtains and floral duvet while desperately trying to reach around and switch off the machine. I swear I saw a rainbow at one point.

I spent the next hour cleaning little splats of cum off various surfaces and scouring the room for missed traces like some kind of sperm-obsessed Sherlock Holmes.

Only took that machine for a spin the once, but man, it was a sweet ride.

Length? The bigger the catapult, the further the distance.
(, Sat 17 Nov 2007, 16:17, 6 replies)
Desperate? How to always get sex; this never fails....
Short, prematurely balding, with an irradicable (slight, but ever-present) air of geekery, and just not confident with the opposite sex. Is this you?

In any case, it nicely sums up J, a (male) friend of mine from some time ago. At least, this was J before he had, in the same week, a self-realisatory epiphany and a major discovery about the nature of probability.

The epiphany was , as all moments on the path to enlightenment tend to be, the very essence of simplicity. His shyness was mainly due to the conditioninig we receive that when we are trying to pull, we shouldn't appear to the target of such desire that this is the case. Everyone can know what the motivations are, but everyone must pretend that the man is *really interested* in blah etc, not just a primal, depply motivating fascination with reentering the womb. In other words, if he didn't feel he had to pretend he was after anything apart from sex, then he wouldn't have to feel all coy and dufusy about it - realising of course that the shyness and lack of self-confidence was doing his seductory efforts no good at all.

Probability you ask? Glad you did. When you calculate a probability (make a bet) you are not really betting on that horse coming first, you are actually betting AGAINST THE SUM OF ALL OTHER POSSIBLE OUTCOMES. Which is why the house always wins. Now J had this thought; what if I am the house? And what if all this time I have been thinking that I have focusing my efforts on being the winning horse? In fact, all this time I have been EXPECTING NOT TO PULL A BIRD. AND I HAVE BEEN WINNING AT THIS LITTLE GAME. When you consider the sum of all other possibilities from this, (sum = pulling, really) then gee, my luck must eventually run out.

Let's put these two things together and now let's watch J on an average night out with myself, and one or two of the boys......

There is drinking, and solicitous imbibery of goodly things. There is food, there is maybe a game of pool, or karaoke; there is in all certainly bullshit and manly bonding. Eventually, the time comes to make a choice, for the group to descend into an ever-decreasing spiral of togetherness and insobriety, or to turn its direction outwards, in search of the fairer half of the species.

We now know just to stand back and watch, because of you treat this as a race, you will now always lose to J. Who is still short, still prematurely balding,, and still unavoidably a geek, no matter how you dress him. He might toss a coin. He might spin a bottle. Somehow he finds a starting point...
"Hi, I'm J, you look nice. Would you like to leave with me now for sex at my place?" The only rule is the 45 second rule. If there is no harsh negative, or if there is no immediate conceptual agreement, it's on to the next target (defined only by whether you'd chew your arm off the next day).

He has done the math, and our observation backs this up. Peer reviews confirm it. The experiment is repeatable by anyone who has taken the key lesons to heart and lived them openly. The average number of apparently single women approached before getting the intended result, if following this method and ensuring yu start no earlier than 2 hours after the venue in question hits its peak time, is 18. That's 20 to 30 minutes including travel and wait time between contacts. And to date, as long as there are at least 50 available targets in the building, it has never, ever failed.

Desperate? Only if you see it that way.
(, Sat 17 Nov 2007, 14:05, 5 replies)
Back when I was a skint student.
All I had for footwear was one pair of trainers. The sole of the left one came away from the rest of it one day. I couldn't even afford the cheapest pair to replace them without having to go without food for a fortnight so I sewed it back on. When the thread I used snapped I stapled it back on. It lasted me another two months until I could finally afford a new pair.
(, Sat 17 Nov 2007, 13:31, 1 reply)
My old mate Gary used to always ask for fags off people - guys at 6th form college, mates, family, me... And point-blank refused to work part-time to support this habit.

He used to check empty cigarette packets lying in the street, in case people dropped them, which unsurprisingly was a waste of time. Except for one occasion, where he found a pack of superkings with three left! They were brown, from getting damp i think.. (rain? piss? who knows?) And they stank when he smoked them - he was made up with that find!

The worst part was his mother smoked, and he used to raid the ashtray at home... He would crumble the old tobacco from the cigarrette buts, and use this to make new roll-up cigarrettes! I had the misfortune to try one of these, and it felt like i was licking an ashtray clean - Mmmmm...Scabby!
(, Sat 17 Nov 2007, 12:59, 3 replies)

This question is now closed.

Pages: Latest, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, ... 1