greek chicken
A good few years ago, Mrs Spimf and I grabbed a cheap package deal to Corfu. It was one of those trips where you don’t know which resort you will stay at until arrival, upon which some high-camp, shiny faced orange mong in a blazer waves a clipboard in your face and thus seals your holiday fate. I think this type of ‘Surprise!’ allocation of final destination was pioneered in the Nazi death camps. We had looked at various resorts in the brochure and agreed they all looked fine so we were quite optimistic. The coach kept stopping to disgorge small groups of holidaymakers at quiet little resorts with clusters of stucco apartments. Each one we passed looked better than the previous and all the while we were heading further down the little island of Corfu.

By the time we realised the coach was almost empty and we were destined for the most southerly aspect of the island it was too late. Now please take note of this - Kavos is the closest thing to hell on earth. A more clichéd vulgar nightmare would be hard to find on a Sun readers Lottery win wish list. After a few days of English bars running Fools and Horses on a purgatory loop, pictures of egg and chips on laminated menus plus free 'bathtub hooch' shooters with every round, not to mention constant happy hardcore belching out of every bar, we were soon at each others throats.

Thankfully we were given a tip from a local that turned our nightmare holiday neatly around. At the very southern tip of Corfu there is a very well kept secret - a curved stretch of 3 miles or so of perfectly empty golden beach guarded by steep limestone cliffs. No pizza, no chips, no straw umbrellas, plastic wrappers or beer bottles, not even a footprint. This secret beach was only accessible either by boat (which is why is was not packed with melon sellers and tourists) or by heading inland on a rented scooter up over the hills on a very vague rubble track, then down to what soon became ‘our beach’. If you zoom in to the tip of the island - the track we bumped over on the scooter with all our day-at-the beach paraphernalia is even indicated spimfs beach A huge rock about the size of a double bed made a natural barbeque and a handy line of bone dry driftwood where the sand met the limestone cliffs meant we would spend all day there then have a fire and some food as the sun sunk into the med.

After a day or so of having the place to ourselves we dispensed with clothes altogether. At one point a fisherman puttered by on a small boat close to the shore cursing us in Greek and waving a mobile phone but I simply waved mine back (my phone that is) and nothing came of it. On the third day a hundred yards or so down the beach we saw a lone girl sunbathing naked. After a slightly awkward moment, a quick wave at each other suggested our mutual nudity was not going to be an issue. It would seem we had established our very own naturist beach.

Our beach became one of the very first places I have ever felt completely relaxed making love outdoors in the bright sunshine. Mrs Spimf will also confirm that when clad only in mask, snorkel and fins the sight of me emerging naked from the surf complete with cold shrivelled willy, looks every bit as daft as it sounds.

One evening, after a meal of barbequed chicken, red snapper and Greek salad Mrs Spimf and I were standing at the shore bickering as the bio-luminescent green waves crashed at our feet. It was very dark that night; the only light was from our fire further up the beach. The bickering was annoying me. Mrs Spimf, was still nagging that her chicken had been underdone, a fact I was dismissing out of hand. She didn’t twig at first but I was nearly done by the time she realised that I was standing beside her, hands on hips, casually pissing on her leg.

After the fight we packed up the gear and were just about to wobble home full of cheap wine on our little moped when Mrs Spimf decided a blowjob was a damn fine idea. Who was I to argue? I was just settling into the affair when all hell broke loose. My entire genital area was suddenly hot and wet. Mrs Spimf was gagging horribly. How some people can see being vomited on as a turn on is beyond me?

I stomped back up the beach after washing myself in the surf to find poor Mrs Spimf in a very bad way. She ended up in a clinic for two days with a temperature nudging 104 (during which i did the right thing - I went out with three girls from our hotel to a foam party). She still maintains it was the chicken. Naturally I blamed the salad.

So our little trip included:

Naturism
Voyeurism
Al fresco sex; oral vaginal and anal (well I was on holiday).
Pissing
And as I believe it is called - emetophilia

I don’t recommend emetophilia, and Mrs Spimf doesn’t recommend my barbecue chicken.
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Thu 22 Oct 2009, 20:36, 2 replies)

Big ol' pervy click from me
*click*
( TheMattInAHat has a particular... odour..., Thu 22 Oct 2009, 21:30, closed)

:s
i feel a bit ill now :(
(panda_sam, Thu 22 Oct 2009, 21:34, closed)