When life imitates art...

I feel that at this point, I must re-iterate the question of this QotW. Although we have been treated to some wonderful tales this week, the requested subject matter is not ”tell us about fleeting meetings with celebrities”…It is:

“Tell us about the lengths you've gone to in order to show your devotion to your heroes. Just how big a fan are you.”

‘Big Fan’ eh?....’Devotion’ is it?...’Length’ you want?

Well this dear reader, is my story…of just how far a man is willing to go.

You think you know real love? Well let me tell you, dear reader…you don’t know shit.

I gave my heart, my soul, my money…and spoonfuls of my manfat to someone…just because they looked like my all-time favourite star of the silver screen.

This was a few years ago now…and from the moment I saw her alone in the pub I was instantly taken aback. She was an angel…a vision, immaculately resplendent, and the fact that she was wearing grunge-style clothes and no make up, Her likeness was so uncanny, it took my breath away. I was besotted.

I realised immediately that this was going to be the closest I would EVER get to realising my lifelong dream…and if I was to accomplish this incredible ambition, I was first going to have to shed my awkward personality and crippling shyness. I was going to have to ‘man the fuck up’ and give it a shot!

I downed a few vodkas to give me that boost of ‘Dutch courage’ (a bit like a ‘Dutch Oven’, only with slightly less farting in bed and holding heads under the covers)

And then I approached her tentatively…stuttering nervously as I offered to buy her a drink.

She gazed up at me…and I saw at close quarters that just like my idol, she had sublime bone structure, that trademark ‘floppy fringe’, and wide eyes like glistening pools of pristine loveliness. She broke her perfect pout only to deftly reply:

“Ah, mais Oui!”,

‘Fucking get in there!’ I thought to myself. This was even more perfect than I could possibly imagine. Everybody and his pet dog knows that the French are ruder and hotter than Chubby Brown’s swampy arse-cress on a balmy day in August.

She spoke with an accent so deliciously decadent…it was as if every word was purposefully trying to send my throbbing knobbly obelisk busting out of the bottom of my left trouser leg so it could waft triumphantly at gobsmacked passers-by.

I instantly set about ‘wooing’ her (Read: stalking). I camped outside her flat, sang songs to her window, and sent her continental chocolates and DVDs every day. When she finally agreed to go on a date, I pulled out all the stops and spunked my life savings on jewellery, fine wine and souvenirs of all things French for her..

And by jove, it certainly did the trick. She said she had never experienced such pure animalistic devotion before, and she was powerless to resist . I knew that all my efforts were worthwhile as I watched with purest glee as she led me to her boudoir, whipped her kex off, stuck her legs in the air and flung her flange flesh at me like a fizzing flap-filled philharmonic fanfare. This was the stuff dreams are made of!

She well and truly succumbed – (in that order…’suc, cum, bed’). The oral acrobatics she performed were clinical and intense, the expertise exquisite…and every time I gazed adoringly down upon her enigmatic head gobbling on my cock like a dog chomping hot peanut butter, I would be whisked away to my darkest fantasies… wistfully imagining what her phenomenal doppleganger’s technique would really be like. I didn’t know how it could be possible, but I just knew it would be even better.

And these thoughts alone were enough to send my sploogey electric rope shooting straight to the back of her gag reflex like a todger powered tartare sauce torpedo.

Thrice a day, we would always make love in only the missionary position – even when I shoe-horned it up her wrongun’…this made it even more special for me. Although She was keen to experiment, I insisted on that one position…I wanted to watch her face writhe and contort with ecstasy as I plunged enthusiastically into her…pounding harder and deeper in the belief that somehow my passion could reach such fevered extremes that perhaps…somehow… the real object of my affections could feel each splurging grunt-tastic megathrust and just perhaps…wherever they were…they would go ever-so-slightly bandy legged without even knowing the real reason why…

As you can imagine, Life was simply blissful. Eventually, She fell in love with me. But like all men who don’t realise a good thing when they’ve got it, I let her slip through my fingers. I tried to change her – constantly making her dress and act more and more like my true obsession. I was with her for six spaff-splattered months before one fateful evening when we were cuddled up on the sofa watching ‘Le Hussard sur le toit ‘ (for the umpteenth time)...

As her hand romantically razzed up and down my raging custard-coughing cucumber like the veritable clappers, I accidentally blurted out the wrong name…the real name of the person who was in my thoughts. I then decided I could keep my secret no longer, and revealed the truth about why I was going out with her.

She was devastated…giving me a solemn speech about not being able to ‘live a lie’. Within a week she had returned to France forever. I wept as she climbed aboard the train...wishing it was me that she was ‘climbing aboard’…one more time. But it was too late…she was gone…It was over.

I never fully recovered…or loved again.

So people…they say you should ‘never meet your heroes’…yet nobody tells you of the perils and suffering of falling in love with lookalikes. Let my heartbreak be a warning to you all.

Finally…There were two tragic ironies to this tale. First of all, despite her having what I perceived to be flawless beauty, she said I was the first man who had ever approached her…a bit weird that – I’d always considered that a girl who looked exactly like Gerard Depardieu would be beating the fellas away with a shitty stick. Hey ho.

But secondly, the strangest (and sexiest) thing of all was…I found out later that she was only with me in the first place to get a Green Card.

What are the odds?
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 22 Apr 2009, 12:52, 10 replies)

Once again...
...you astound me with another linguistic masterpiece.

Win for the alliteration alone.

Nice one.
(TheColonel, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 13:12, closed)

I can totally relate to this.
I once took home a guy because he looked like KD Lang.
( girlinthehole, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 13:44, closed)

Great read
as always, mate.
( SpankyHanky, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 14:15, closed)

Just ... just poetry:
"straight to the back of her gag reflex like a todger powered tartare sauce torpedo".

I laughed like a fucking drain!
(Audioduck So, can I haz fucking Cheezburgers or not?, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 14:40, closed)

Meh,
If we stuck to the topic, it would probably be a short QOTW.

I prefer the /board principle: If it's good, it's good. And there's been some good off-topic stuff this week.
(Richy_T hundreds if not thousands of dollars, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 15:24, closed)

Aw, bless ya Mr T...

Therein lies the irony...that I make a statement about sticking to the topic, then I follow up with a tale about humping the chud-cheeks off someone who looks like Gerard Depardieu.

Strangely, I've thought of a more relevant post...If only I could be arsed...
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 22 Apr 2009, 15:36, closed)

You have a few more hours left, maybe more
It all depends who can be arsed less, you or the mods.
(Richy_T hundreds if not thousands of dollars, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 17:26, closed)

Hurm
That sounds well jackson.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 19:41, closed)

*click* for
throbbing nobbly obelisk
custard-coughing cucumber

Both of which have now been noted for future use!
(randomstupidname would really like this signature field to be bigge, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 21:13, closed)

I fucking LOVE this
You're a poet
( chart cat has an itch, Thu 23 Apr 2009, 5:44, closed)