There's some daft person near me who's flirting with a tree!
On my commute to work, I drive past a tree that somebody keeps buying cards and flowers for!

I dunno what he/she sees in it - it's not even a particularly nice tree (it has a big scorched chunk taken out of one side of it!)
( Zak McFlimby Twibbling @McFlimby, Thu 18 Feb 2010, 13:57, 9 replies)

Ah divvent flirt
Ah cannat even swim, man, pet.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Thu 18 Feb 2010, 13:18, 13 replies)

Thanks b3ta!
After reading and empathising with so many "if only" stories this week I decided to do something about it. So struck up a conversation with a cute girl on the train home tonight and I'm taking her out Friday!
( pixel_fucker is going to need a bigger brush, Mon 22 Feb 2010, 21:05, 15 replies)

Truckstop Brief Encounter
Couple of months back I pulled into a services on the A1 for my 45 minute tacho break. I set the alarm on my phone and went for a coffee.
As there was no one else about, I hung around near the cashier to keep her company in a non-stalkery fashion (these services get the odd grab and run by the scrotes).

We chatted. We chatted some more. She told me a few things. I returned the courtesy. I bought her a coffee. She told me she finished in 10 minutes, and could I walk to her car. Nothing if not a gentleman...and when we got there, she raised an eyebrow.

And the countdown timer went off.

Me "You know I'd love to, but: I've got 23 tonnes of peas in the back, and my wedding ring is getting hot. So is yours, I'll bet."

Her "First time in 17 years I forgot it was there. Shake my hand, once, and don't look round as you go."

Triumph? Disaster? I'll never know. I'll never go back there either.
(all my scars face forward possesses 2.5% of a hyperalloy combat chassis, Thu 18 Feb 2010, 22:40, 17 replies)

Flirting Isn't Harmless
When I get nervous my mouth engages before my brain has a chance to catch up.

A while back I went to the dentist at the end of Kentish Town Road in North London just next to the Greek Cathedral on account of losing a filling in a freak eating-a-bacon-sandwich-whilst-drunk incident. Dentists make me nervous. I’m not skittish about going, I’m just not too keen on the INTENSE FUCKING PAIN caused by all the injections and drilling. And those little balls of cotton they pack your cheek out with make me feel nauseous and strangely violated.

So, I’m in the waiting room flicking through the Readers Digest, checking out the tits on the Aboriginal girls in this article I’d found, when my name gets called. Trembling slightly, I venture into the dentist’s office and spot the chair and the elderly dental nurse and the incredibly fit Spanish dentist with long silky black hair and a figure I’d have liked to ski down.

“Hello,” said the dentist.

“Hello,” I said, suddenly confused. I was feeling slightly aroused and petrified at the same time. I imagine this is what a male praying mantis feels like just before he shoots his insect junk, knowing he’s about to have his head chewed off (and not in a nice way).

I sit in the chair, get a whiff of fit Spanish dentist’s perfume. It might’ve been the pink stuff they get you to swill your mouth out with, but fuck it, it smelt good on her. Then she puts her arm on my shoulder and tells me to calm down with a little chuckle.

“You look rigid!” she said.

Instantly, I glance down at my cock – the little fella was sleeping, thank fuck. No tent pole toga action going on there. Getting a hard on while laying back in a dentist’s chair would just be, well, fucking weird and uncalled for.

“I just get a bit scared,” I admitted. And then fit Spanish dentist set about putting me at ease while she set up all the gear and started prodding round inside my gob with a little mirror, inadvertently rubbing her boobies on my arm. I tensed. Finally she reached for a syringe and my eyes went wide.

“You’re going to feel a little prick in your mouth,” she said.

To which I instantly shot back: “I bet you say that to all the boys... “ with a little chuckle. It went down like a pork spit roast with anthrax seasoning at a Jewish wedding served up by a couple of members of the Hitler Youth. As my dentist’s amiable smile turned sour, as if she was suddenly smelling the heady aroma given off by a skip load of used nappies smeared with cream cheese and left out in the sun for a few days to ripen, I quickly added: “shouldn’t I be saying that to you?”

So, let’s run through that again:

Dentist: “You’re going to feel a little prick in your mouth.”

Me: “I bet you say that to all the boys... shouldn’t I be saying that to you?”

It made absolutely no sense at all.

I’d just alluded, in one incredibly fucked up sentence that this incredibly fit Spanish dentist was actually a lady boy complete with fully functioning pocket rocket and twin furry asteroid combo, and that ‘she’ enjoyed whipping down her pants and t-bagging ‘her’ package in the mouths’ of her prostrate patients where they lay.

And even as my brain processed this information I remembered what I’d followed this up with... Namely, I’d suggested to this woman – this woman armed with a great big fucking needle and surrounded by enough torture equipment to make Genghis Khan’s japs eye weep with excitement in his grave – that I’d quite like to put my cock in her gob.

And, as the silence intensified and became almost tangible, I realised the worst part of all. I’d admitted to this gorgeous vision of perfection that I had a ‘little prick’...

Fit Spanish dentist sort of frowned down at me. She didn’t say another word.

And she didn’t even wait for the novocaine to kick in properly before she started drilling. I think we were both a little embarrassed.

I was out of there in fifteen minutes flat. Hurt like the proverbial muttha-fucker...

I go to a dentist over in Chalk Farm now. His name's Dennis. We don't discuss putting cocks-in-mouths. We're both happy with this arrangement.
( SpankyHanky, Thu 18 Feb 2010, 17:10, 4 replies)

Gah
I was crazy about a girl I went to college with. I had asked her out so she knew I liked her, but wasn't interested. After college she moved to Canada and I stayed around Ireland

One day on Facebook I noticed on one of those Friend Q&A things that someone had answered a question saying I was cute. I checked who answered it and it was her! So I sent her a message as a joke saying "Oh, you wait till you're all the way over in Canada to change your mind about me?"

Her response? "Puppys are cute. That doesn't mean I'm ever going to fuck one."
:(
(cH3$h7846J#7, Mon 22 Feb 2010, 9:16, 5 replies)

Very pissed at a party.
I approached an absolutely beautiful girl with not a thought in my head and said, "shall we have a bath?".

She said OK and so we did. Luckily there was another bog downstairs for all the people banging on the door.
(twattybanjo, Thu 18 Feb 2010, 22:42, 5 replies)

A man who was very good with his hands.
The seven year itch exists - fact. It might not always be seven years, but that kind of equates to the time in a serious relationship when there might well be small children about.

It did for us; I was on maternity leave for the second time. Our eldest was almost four and the baby was just a few months old when my father-in-law died and we came into about £15k. This was the early 1990s and that was a lot of money. We'd been living in our little house in Isleworth for about five years and still hadn't got around to replacing the kitchen that had been there when we moved in - and for the previous ten years, by the look of it. Ben (my husband in those days) kept promising to do something about it, but his skills in the DIY department would have left the Chuckle Brothers tutting and shaking their heads.

At this time, our marriage was looking a little bit shaky. The reduced income while I was on leave, plus the increased out-goings due to the baby would have been bad enough, but she was one of those babies that wouldn't get into a regular sleeping pattern no matter what we tried. Kid 1 had been brilliant, Kid 2 was a nightmare, which meant that neither of us had had a good night's sleep for fucking ever. Or rather, I hadn't; Ben had taken to sleeping downstairs on the sofa-bed during the week so that he could function at work.

I still can't figure out whether I had post-natal depression or just chronic fatigue exacerbated by lack of sex, or any physical contact really (with anyone over three feet tall anyway). I assumed that Ben 'got his' on the sofa, courtesy of late night channel four, as he rarely pestered me for sex at this time. Looking back on this time later, after I kicked him out, I suspect that he might have had a bit on the side too, though I can't be certain.

Wow - that's quite a back-story isn't it. Paints a picture though - a blurred, impressionistic picture - like one of Turner's maybe: 'The River Thames on a Misty Morning with Boats and Smoke'. We both knew that things couldn't carry on as they were; we both knew that things would get better once Kid 2 learnt to sleep through the night, but meanwhile...

It was the start of the summer holidays, so I was practically living in my dressing gown, baggy leggings and tee-shirt at this time, as I didn't have to take Kid 1 to school. They were permanently stained with baby sick and breast milk and I must have looked a total fright. When Ben suggested that we use a chunk of his inheritance money to get a new kitchen fitted, I actually cried, as it felt like the nicest thing anyone had said to me ever. Once I got control of myself and thanked him properly, he said he'd do some asking around at work for a recommendation.

Later that week, a guy came round to have a chat about it. His name was Mark and I was a bit scared of him. He came in the evening when Ben was there, but he was still scary, he had his sleeves rolled up and there were tattoos all over his forearms and I guessed they didn't stop there. I'd already decided that I didn't want to be alone in the house with him when he showed us some photos of other kitchens he'd done, brought out samples of woods and finishes, discussed the merits of Belfast sinks and dishwashers. By the end of an hour I'd changed my mind and he started work four weeks later.

At first I was nervous about being in the house with just him and the kids, but very soon he showed that he was not just a very good kitchen designer/maker, but he was brilliant with kids. It turned out that after a bit of a rough start to life, which included children's homes, a spell in the navy and a couple of spells in prison, he'd turned his life around when his girlfriend gave birth to their first child and he'd had to miss being there because he was inside. He'd trained as a joiner and had never looked back. His kids were all teenagers and somehow, he showed me that my kids were at the best possible age. I started to enjoy being a mum again.

Gradually, I pulled myself together. I started doing yoga again, showered every morning, got dressed, went to the hairdresser's, bought some new clothes, took the kids out to the park everyday, chatted to Mark, saw my lovely kitchen coming together.

I don't even know if this was a flirtation, or just a very nice man helping out a struggling woman in need. I tend to think it was just that, but knowing men, I can't be sure. Sure, when I got back from the hairdresser's he commented on how nice I looked, sure he made me laugh, boosted my confidence. Sure he changed somehow when Ben got home from work, or if he worked on a weekend...

By the time the kitchen was finished, Kid 2 was sleeping through the night and I'd persuaded Ben to come back to our bed. He hadn't taken a lot of persuasion - when you whisper into a man's ear "How would you like a blow-job?" I've found that that can be pretty persuasive. He wasn't to know that I was imagining myself on my knees in the kitchen with my mouth round Mark's cock, or later, that I was imagining myself lying on my back on the kitchen table with my heels up on Mark's shoulders as he fucked me amid the scent of freshly sawn pine.

There are some things that are best kept to yourself.
(K.W.A. Knickers With Attitude, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 11:37, 15 replies)

AFTERS
When I used to flat share with my mate Posh John I’d usually end up flirting with the succession of girls he’d bring round to fuck. It was pitiful. Sitting there exchanging flirtatious small talk with this random girl in the living room while John attempted to scrape the remnants of jizz and fanny batter off his sheets from his previous conquest, getting ready to get them all slick with hot human excreations again.

One night I was sat drinking Vimto out the bottle and eating chicken wings, watching some Japanese film on the box where a bloke was fucking a woman and using live shrimp to spice it up a bit. And all the time I could hear Posh John and this latest peice of ass banging away in his room. I was going through a dry spell, I hadn’t been laid in months and was feeling pretty fucking dismal.

I carry on watching the film as the hooting and screaming eminating from John’s room fades. Then after a while this girl, an attractive girl with dark hair cut in a neat little bob and wearing John’s t-shirt pattered into view. She smiled when she saw me.

“Hello again,” she said.

“Hello again,” I said. Feeling icredibly pissed off. She was a nice looking girl. Nice legs. I pretended not to be trying to catch a glimpse of her fur burger as I continuted eating my chicken wings. The girl sat down on the other sofa chair and explained John had passed out. She said she was hungry. I offered her a wing. She accepted.

And then we talked for about fifteen minutes or-so. The usual empty, pointless flirtation. I commented that she was far too good for an ugly fucker like John. I said she was a bit classy. She said she liked my tattoos and asked me what they ‘meant’ (fuck knows, they’re just pretty pictures).

And then she came and sat next to me so she could nick my food easier. And then she was touching my arm.

Ohhhhhh, fuck!!!

And then she said: “We could, you know. Go to your room...”

And miliseconds later I had her on my bed, kissing her, kneading her tits like big mounds of mallable hot dough. I slid my hand down into her panties as she breathed soundlessly and I felt that she was incredibly wet. My fingers wiggled round her sopping cunt lips and I found her clit and gave it the patent pending super-speed three finger rubdown. She writhed and bucked and her pussy shot out a load of sticky liquid. God she was HOT!!!

Then it occured to me.

I stopped, lifted my hand out of her knickers and examined my hand. It was covered, my fingers were webbed together and I had a trail running down my wrist... it was John’s still oven-fresh manfat, slick, globby and hot to the touch and attempting to make my hand pregnant.

“You don’t mind, do you?” said the girl, pulling me back towards her.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I said.
( SpankyHanky, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 12:03, 17 replies)

Gym Fun
There is a pretty girl I regularly see at the gym, and we've been flirting with each other while jogging on the treadmills ever since she accidentally left her ipod on the machine before I started using it, then playfully accused me of stealing it.

The first of us to arrive usually tries to orchestrate it so that we can be on the treadmills next to each other, i.e. I usually pick 3 empty treadmills and go on the one in the middle so she can go either side when she arrives.

A month or so back, I did this, but two old biddies showed up and shotgunned the ones either side of me, choosing to barely jog while talking across me. Cheers. I then see my jogging buddy come in behind on the mirror at the front, notice, give a slight scowl and hang back on the cross trainers so she can wait till one leaves.

As soon as the one to my right gets off, I see her jump off the cross trainer, walk briskly towards me, jump onto the treadmill and turn to speak. Unbeknownst to her, the old fool hadn't actually turned the thing off and I'm greeted to a blur of a girl yelling 'Hiiiiiiiiiyaaaah' while having her legs thrown from under her. She actually fell horizontal across it, got rolled over and spat off the back.

I had to stop running cos I was laughing so much. I would have died of embarrassment if it was me, but she just gets straight up, turns it off, jumps back on, gives the brightest of smiles and says 'can't you go one day without sweeping me off my feet?'


Update: Wont leave you guys hanging, yes, we've been dating about 3 weeks. She's a geotechnical engineer, half-turk and confident to point of it being intimidating at times, but also funny, cute and very intelligent. And we run at the gym together a few times a week, still doing the whole 'trying to be next to each other' thing as we don't finish work at the same time. We're like two kids.
( Regger, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 8:02, 10 replies)

As an antidote to the previous woeful blurt
here is the tale of why a young Jenny decided to leave her hometown for good. Lamentably, this is 100% true.

Myself and my schooldays sidekick (confusingly also Jenny) went out one evening to our crappy hometown's closest approximation of an indie club. When I say 'indie', in this case, it means it had 20% or so fewer Chernobyl-orange overweight Wetherspoons harridans flashing their pink-nylon-clad gussets in the bouncer's face than the other clubs in town. It was still shit.

On this particular night, though, we had other things on our mind. Namely, an experiment. Earlier that evening, sitting over some lovely real ales in the Owd Black Horse at the corner of the market square, we'd decided that we were going to do something a bit different to spice up our evening. Namely, that we were going to Be Nice.

To clarify: my hometown's a bit rough. Not quite Irvine, but not that far off. Even the job centre was boarded up, and venturing out onto the high street on a Saturday evening involved circumnavigating vast pools of congealing vomit and shrieking gangs of obese tattooed women wearing PVC and punching the shit out of each other on the pavement from about 6pm onwards. As two avowedly pale and curly-haired females who more often than not wore jeans and COATS (gasp!) of an evening, we were somewhat conspicuous. The only way we had managed to survive years of drunken molestation (conversational or otherwise) by the gauntlet of shaven-headed WKD-swilling idiots that lined most of the pubs in town was by being rude to them straight off the bat. Or if not rude, at least pretty blunt. It's not like it came naturally, or that I liked doing it. And we were always friendly to girls or men who were friendly to us.

But really, the only thing to do with the lads that came balling up with some sleazy line or other was to move away or ignore them, because if you replied - or, Lord forbid - smiled - then you were pretty much asking for it. Saying politely that you weren't interested, that you were just out for a catch-up with your friend or that you had a boyfriend, generally met with the following responses - 'fuck you'/'so you're lesbians then/'well he's not here, is he?' So yeah. It was a survival strategy. And I'm not saying we were so cripplingly gorgeous that we were continuingly beating off smitten princes with a stick, but
the fact we'd made it past 16 without being knocked up meant we were considered 'quality' birds by Preston standards.

So anyway. On this particular night, having nothing better to do, we decided that instead of avoiding the overtures of said gentlemen, we would be gracious and engage them in conversation, at least until a spot at the pool table opened up. We got into the place, sat down, and true to form, about five minutes later a pair of chaps came over and plonked themselves in the chairs opposite with aplomb.

'Hiya, love,' was our Romeo's overture. 'What's your name?'

At this point, Jen, having already tired of the experiment, retreated to the bar to get a drink. The other one toddled off after her, leaving me alone with Chap No. 1. His name was Lee. He looked like he worked in a mobile phone shop. He immediately slung his arm around my shoulder. I told him my name.

'Jane, Jane' he yelled into my ear. 'Nice to meet you. And so what do you do, Jane?'

Before I could open my mouth to reply, he interrupted. 'I bet you're a student, aren't you. I fucking 'ate students, me. Fucking twats. It's all a load of bollocks, anyway, school and that. I tell you something, Jane. I tell you what. I didn't go to college and it never did me any harm.'

At this point, I was beginning to suspect he wasn't my future life partner. However, without pausing for breath, he continued.

'And I'll tell you something else, Jane. Look at me. LOOK AT ME!' - at this point he grabbed me by the shoulders and practically yanked me round to face him. The smell of his liberally-applied hair gel was overpowering. I looked.

'I tell you what,' he breathed. 'I didn't go to college, and now...I'm twenty-six years old, and...I've got my own van.'

I waited. The look on his face was one of over-weaning pride and happiness, as if he'd just told me that he was the discoverer of DNA. I realised that some response was expected. 'That's nice,' I said.

Lee then launched into a Clarksonesque orgy of detail about his van, detailing its precise dimensions, colour, age, technical specifications, where he'd got it, for how much, the resulting modifications he'd made to it and how jealous all his mates were. I sat there with gritted teeth, nodding like the Churchill dog and wondering just how much forced politeness I could take before my spleen burst.

Eventually, after what seemed like a decade, he concluded this tirade with what I'm sure he imagined to be the offer of a lifetime, the deal-sealing romantic gesture that had seen a thousand babes wilt at the knees. He leaned in, and pressed his lips to my flinching ear.

'It's out back if you want to have a go in it.'


I moved down south a few weeks later, and sadly, we never did consummate our love. But even now, travelling the highways and byways of Britain, I sometimes catch the glint of the setting sun catching on a windscreen wiper of a souped-up Daihatsu, and I think of Lee, and wonder what might have been...
(jennymnemonic, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 17:33, 5 replies)

Don't try this at home - it's better in a pub, but still don't
When I was 18 I frequented Nottingham Rock City. For those of you unfamiliar you'll quickly find that sex in the toilets is not so much a daring act of rebellion as part of the T&C of entry. Whereas in most of the country, the act of mating involves buying someone a drink followed by "sexay" dancing or, if you're really unlucky, conversation, at Rock City it's as simple as locking eyes with someone. If they look back, you're in. It really is that simple.

With this in mind, and much beer in my belly, a friend of mine bet me a drink that I wouldn't try what remains the most appalling chat-up line I've ever heard, on a real person, in real life and everything. It pains me to admit I did this, even so long ago.

Me: *makes come-hither motion at girl*
Girl: *approaches, foolishly*
Me: I made you come with one finger - imagine what I could do with two!
Girl *slaps, really quite fucking hard*

Amazing how quickly alcohol removes the stench of shame when you're 18. Amazing how long it clings to you once you sober up

Length? 13 years, and I still feel like a dick
(Darth Foxtrot A one-man army dedicated to making fetch happen, Thu 18 Feb 2010, 14:23, 4 replies)

White Russians
It was an average Saturday afternoon when my friend and I decided to go to a bar for some much-loved alcoholic beverages. Our excitement was short-lived, as they had no working beer taps. Cocktails and alcopops were to be our only source of liver-damaging goodness.

We have a quick flick through the drinks menu, and I quickly decide on a White Russian. Hey, it contains milk which strengthens bones and that has to be manly, right?

So I'm at the bar with my friend and I get the first round. I turn to him and ask him if he, too, would like what I'm having and before he answers, I order mine.

Me: "I'll have a White Russian, please!
Sam: "Oh, I'm not sure whether to have the White or the Black Russian."
Sam then turns to the barmaid and asks the following:
Sam: "What do you recommend? White or Black?"
Barmaid: (thick Russian accent) "I would go with the white because I am also a white Russian."
Sam: "Ok, can we get 2 White Russians then?"
Me: "...Make that 3."

I then proceed to give the worst wink in the history of my life, and this from someone who has to do an exaggerated face movement in even the best of them!

Barmaid: "You would only be able to afford 2."

Oh, the shame.
(JaxxKami, Tue 23 Feb 2010, 15:09, 2 replies)

Lovely oirish lasses
Damn this site for dredging up memories. Another one I'd successfully repressed has come floating back up, like that monster turd that you finally and with no small relief manage to flush, only it's not actually cleared the U and was only teasing you.

Night out in Cork, I had my hands handcuffed together. Can't even remember why, not really important. My friend had the key. A very very pretty Irish girl came up and asked for the key. He gave it to her. I then pleaded with her give it back to me. She put it down her (already well-filled) top and with a filthy look told me to get it myself. After a moment's pause, I said 'but I can't use my hands!'. She paused for a moment, I expect dumb-struck by the idiocy on display in front of her, then winked and told me that I'd just have to use my mouth instead then.

Now, thinking back on this I'm squirming in my seat, partially from the offer itself, but mostly because of my response. I stomped back over to my mate and whined 'Daaaaan, she won't give it baaaaaaaack!'

*facepalm*
( kappynitty doubled your entendre on, Mon 22 Feb 2010, 14:44, 14 replies)

Not flirting, but merely a drunken rant
They say sarcasm is the lowest form of wit. Bullshit. Facebook raping is. The act of acquiring access to someone else's Facebook account and to write false statements about said person, be it through getting their password or more commonly through their laptop being unattended, or even worse leaving it logged on on a public computer. It is pointless, benign, derivative and, most importantly O VERDONE and tedious. The childish giggling that commences when so and so writes “Joe Bloggs like its up the bum” compels me to grab a screwdriver and repeatedly jam it into my ear over and over until I reach some gray matter that interferes with my speech and I start involuntarily yelling, 'MUSHY PEAS, MUSHY PEAS' until some poor sod feels sorry for me and smothers me with a pillow. For which I would be grateful because I wouldn't have to see that drivel any more.

It may well be a funny inside joke within a group of friends, and that's all very well, except it's on Facebook and my status feed is inundated with these pointless, tiring and shitty attempts at funny. People of the highest order of douchebaggery getting patted on the back by their peers after posting ' has got anal prolapse, what do I do omg! While the herd of people 'in' on the 'joke' click 'like'. That's another thing – this liking what someone has to say. Its not as if we go about shouting LIKE after someone has said something in real life,

A: Yeah i'm thinking of getting a tattoo.

B: LIKE!

A: Oh yeah, what sort, I'm thinking of a swastika on my arm?

B: LIKE!

A: Seriously?

B: LIKE!

A: What the matter with you?

B: LIKE!

A: Get the fuck out of my face.

B: LIKE!


Fuck you. Yeah you, the wanker who likes every single one of their BFF'S status.

“Mel cant wait to see my boyfriend John Giveafuck!”
clingy BFF likes this.
awwww you guys are so perfekt for each other! Love ya xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

“Mel can't believe I've been stood up like that”
clingy BFF likes this..
what's wrong babe?

“Mel fuck guys they always break you heart and never listen”
clingy BGG likes this
yeah fuck him, he's a dickhead, I've never liked him! Call me babe.

Anyway, I digress. The jolly muppey that is known as the 'prankster' who writes these TEEEHEEHEEHEEEEHHHAHAHAHAHAOMGROFL Facebook rape statuses will probably get the fistbumping of his/hers mates showering him or her with praise, “MATE, WHAT ARE YOU LIKE”, “YOU'RE SUCH A JOKER”, “L-E-G-E-N-D”. “LAAAADDD”

Now, I'm no psychologist, but remember in primary school when you fancied a girl and to show that you liked her, you avoided her, and if ever she came up to you, you'd be dickhead and destroy her daisy chain, or threw grass on her, or punched her? The equivalent of this is to facebook rape her account, only for her to find out it was you. An example conversation,

Girl: “why would you write that on my Facebook, you're such a knob, cant believe you did that *teary eyes* ”


Guy's inner monologue “she's upset, and vulnerable, OMG I HAVE TO TELL HER I LOVED HER. EVER SINCE SHE PASSED OUT THAT ONE NIGHT AT THE PARTY AND RESTED HER HEAD ON MY SHOULDER THAT'S WHEN I KNEW SHE WAS THE ONE I WOULD SPEND THE REST OF MY LIFE WITH. BE MINE! OH BE MINE!”

Guy: “ha, you got punked”

Girl: “but you changed my job to a prostitute! Is that what you think of me?”

Guy: “what I think is, you should go into the kitchen and make me a sandwich – (AAAAAAAAA LAD OMFG IM SUCH LADDDDD, AAAAAAAAH LADS ON TOUR!)

Girl: “crying, I cant believe this! And to think I fancied you! * runs away*”

And then you're just sitting on your own, having a wank and crying. Crying yourself to sleep. But using the tears as lubricant while you're tugging on your pathetic wilted member.

EDITORS NOTE: Ok, T'm pretty sure the first paragraph had a valid point, then I kinda went off on a tangent, but I'm pretty fucked. Spellcheck has saved me from incoherentness.
(pdawg, Sun 21 Feb 2010, 1:19, 17 replies)

Not good at flirting
OK, I'm not good at flirting. As a matter of fact, having Asperger's and the social skills of a SuBo, I'm not good at people, full stop.

So, after an evening with college mates in a particularly lively pub in Farnborough, we spilled out into the car park rather the worse for wear.

John puts his arm around my shoulder and offers me the following observation: "You utter, utter, utter twat!"

"W... what?"

"Did you not see the way that bird was flirting with you?"

Nope, I was too busy with my pint and the tenth retelling of an amusing tale on how I had nearly wiped out the SAS single-handed, armed only with a spoon.

"Come on, you oaf, surely you *must* have noticed. We did."

"How so?"

"The way she sat on your lap, skirt up to her waist, pushing her tits in your face for a start."

"Oh, THAT? I thought there weren't enough seats."

How I lost my virginity, I shall never know.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 18 Feb 2010, 16:57, 6 replies)

Slightly expanded repost from a couple of weeks ago...
At Christmas all of my department went out for a few drinks, as you do. Chatting to a girl I knew reasonably well, who I'll call Stacey, I had the following exchange:

Me: Nice shoes
Her: Nice shoes as in nice shoes, or nice shoes as in you want to nail me?
Me: ... (equal parts amused and lost for words)
Her: Sorry, I'm rubbish at flirting... *blushes*
Me: That's okay, I was just a bit surprised, is all.
Her: God, I'm really embarrassed now! *blushes more and looks mortified*
Me: Er, right let's change the subject then. Wow, look at those pool tables, they've got red cloth! That's just crazy, man!
Her: Yeah, pool tables. So, would you want me bent over one, or on top of it?
Me: ... (as before, but even more so)
Her: Sorry, I'm really rubbish at flirting *blushes about as red as one of the pool tables*

O_o
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Mon 22 Feb 2010, 19:00, 10 replies)

A small update.....
For those of you who read my earlier post

jelly.b3ta.com/questions/flirting/post641758

thanks for all your help and advice.

So I had my big date on Friday. It went really well. She's single, no kids, very attractive, intelligent and funny! We got on like a house on fire from the first minute. We had a lot in common - music, views, etc. I took the best advice offered from you all - I dressed up smart, asked loads of questions, and listened to her answers. I was slightly flirtacious, humourous and basically didn't act like an enormous slobbering dick.

We exchanged an enormous snog before I put her in her taxi home, and I'm seeing her again next week. You beauty!

Thanks again everyone!

RF.

P.S. I managed to avoid the subject of fisting - I know some of you were slightly worried about that. ;-)
(Reverend Fister "a disciplined fuckwit", Mon 22 Feb 2010, 10:08, 10 replies)

Business trip to Cardiff
Check-in at the hotel.

Fit Aussie Receptionist: "Would you like a newspaper in the morning sir?"

Me: "Yes please. I don't suppose you could get your hands on a 'Scotsman' for me could you?"

F.A.R : "Oh I'd love to get my hands on a Scotsman sir!"

Me: "Perfect. What time do you finish?"

F.A.R : "11 o'clock!"

Me: "Excellent, I'll see you in the bar."

My female colleague, stood just behind me, rolled her eyes and turned to the man behind her in the queue, muttering "I have to put up with this idiot for a living."
(Reverend Fister "a disciplined fuckwit", Thu 18 Feb 2010, 14:34, 3 replies)

Losing My Virginity
This is the story of how I lost my virginity.

I still find this incident quite embarrassing and uncomfortable to recall as I am not sure if what I did is actually morally allowed. Please remember that I was young, horny and desperate to get laid for the first ever time. Nowadays if I was faced with the same situation, I would probably run a mile in the opposite direction.

I was 17 and living in Orkney where I was in the middle of my final year at school. At the time most of my days mainly consisted of skipping as many classes as I could reasonably get away with and drinking beer in my house with a few mates since I only lived about two or three hundred yards away from the school.

One afternoon I had a free period and then PE so I decided I would nip home to watch TV first before heading back later on to kick footballs at the folk on the trampolines for an hour. I was walking along the path outside the school when I bumped into a woman that I knew. Her name was Jane.

Jane was a 22 year-old single mum who I had met a few months prior. She was quite short but very attractive with long bleach-blonde hair. It was a nice day out and evidently she was on her way over to my house as well. This was nothing unusual. Her and my step-mum had become quite friendly over the past couple of months so I would see them in the living room together playing games with her son. I would often help out where I could since I quite liked Jane and the kid was pretty entertaining. He had just learnt to walk, and as such, he would take any opportunity to sprint across the room as fast as his wobbly penguin-legs would take him, and would inadvertently crash into walls, chairs, the dog or any other inanimate object that stood in his way. He was comedy gold.

Since she had been coming over regularly Jane and I were getting quite close and she seemed very happy that I was taking an interest and spending time with her son.

When we got to the house she cornered me in the kitchen as I was making a sandwich for lunch.

“You should come over to mine later for tea if you want? I’m making lasagne” she said.

Being quite partial to homemade lasagne, I agreed, since the alternative that night was roast chicken. And I cannot fucking stand chicken.

Later on in the day after I had finished terrorizing everyone in PE, I made my way up to Jane’s house. Because she was a full-time mum the Council had provided her with a nice two-bedroom house that she lived in with her son. The kitchen was attached to the living room so while she prepared the lasagne, I lay on the couch and watched Ed, Edd and Eddy with the kid. I loved that show. I have a sister who is eleven years younger than me and I would sometimes sit and watch cartoons with her anytime I was bored after school. Those were good times.

Anyway, after we had finished eating and the kid had worn himself out, Jane put him to bed and then brought through a bottle of wine. I was still lying down on the opposite couch so I took this as a sneaky opportunity to sit next to her. Over the course of the evening we shared a couple of bottles of wine and watched The Evil Dead trilogy. Romantic I know.

I was pretty inexperienced in relationships and, well, women in general, and I wasn’t accustomed to the basic signs of flirting. At this point I still considered this evening as simply ‘hanging out’. The fact that she invited me over for a cooked dinner should have been a clue. The Von Dutch t-shirt that she was wearing that was so tight I could see her pierced nipples poking through it should have been another. It finally hit home though when she sidled up to me, took my hand and placed it around her shoulder and gazed directly into my eyes with a fuck-me look that could have stopped a ravaging lion in its tracks, with her breasts beckoning me through her tight white shirt.

As inexperienced and naïve as I was, there was no way I could not pick up on that sign. I leaned in, placed my other hand tenderly around the back of her neck and kissed her. And I kissed her some more. Kissing then moved onto touching, touching moved onto rubbing, and before I knew it, she had a hold of my hand and was pulling me towards her bedroom. This was finally it. The day I had dreamed about was finally here.

I followed her into her bedroom, taking note of the vast amount of toys on the floor that I could potentially trip over later, and then proceeded to have the most eagerly anticipated sex I have ever had. It was awesome. There aren’t many things in life that you look forward to as much as having sex for the first time, and it certainly didn’t disappoint.

Now you may have noticed a couple of things from earlier on in the story that I haven’t clarified yet. Like when I mentioned that this was embarrassing? And why Jane was appearing at my house regularly even though we weren’t going out?

Well, the reason for both is that the father of her child is actually my step-brother. So the reason she was over at mine all the time was because she was taking her son to see his grandmother. And the reason why I felt, and still feel, awkward was because even although the sex was great, the woman I had just stuck my penis inside was technically the mother of my nephew. Or step-nephew. Can you even have a step-nephew? Either way, I realize that it was totally fucked up.

And so began my official journey into the depraved world of flirting.
( Fat Fred too weird to live, too rare to die, Tue 23 Feb 2010, 19:48, 22 replies)

As I was born and raised in Barnsley,
my idea of flirting is a brisk nod, perhaps adding "ayup" if I'm feeling very friendly. Going beyond that is a dead-cert way to get on the sex offenders' register.
( The Mock TurtIe ™ --- Thinks you are a cunt, on, Sun 21 Feb 2010, 18:12, Reply)

In which grandmasterfluffles flirts accidentally and actually manages to pull
So, last night I was at a gig. This is not unusual in itself. A few of us went for a drink or three afterwards - also not remotely unusual, as anyone who hangs out with classical musicians will tell you. I was sitting opposite a rather fit baritone I’d never met before, but we were getting on very well. At some point, the conversation turned to flirting and I said, very truthfully, “I’ve been told I’m the world’s biggest flirt, but I’ve never any idea I’m doing it. In fact, if I actually want to flirt with someone, I have absolutely no idea how to go about it.”

Civilised conversation continued until we all decided to part ways. By this time, Fit Baritone and I had discovered that we lived a mere five minutes walk from one another, and so we got the bus together to Kentish Town, by which time we’d decided to have another drink at one of the many watering holes round that way. Trouble was, by the time we got there it was very late and everything was shut. “Never mind,” said Fit Baritone, “Come back to mine for a quick nightcap.” This I did.

So we got to his place, had some port and listened to some records and had a nice chat - all very cultured and civilised. Then it was time for me to leave, and as I was getting my stuff together, I suddenly found myself locked in a rather intense embrace with him, complete with lots of heavy breathing (him) and utter bemusement (me).

It turns out that while we were having drinks, at the moment that I delivered the line, “I’m the world’s biggest flirt,” my leg just happened to brush against his. He actually thought I was playing footsie with him under the table, when in actual fact I was totally oblivious to the entirely accidental physical contact.

I’m going on a date with him on Friday. Score!
(grandmasterfluffles Come to my Armageddon party on, Tue 23 Feb 2010, 15:08, 7 replies)

How sodding obvious does a girl have to be?
Back in my younger days I lived on a remote island in the back of beyond. We rarely got any visitors and as I was a young single and highly sexed girl of reasonably attractiveness I would openly flirt with any newcomer to the island when I got a chance (Believe me only a handful of the locals were decent looking but I had a bit of a reputation thanks to the fact that I had slept with a few people already).

One day we were visited a pretty nice bloke called N a guy who was already in a relationship with his girl back home but I thought he might like a bit of a fling while he was away from home. After a few awkward chats I did the usual things to show that I was interested and I was sure he wanted me but he then said something about God and also let it slip that he was still a virgin too.

After hearing this I thought that N was saying, I’m a Christian and saving myself for the bog off wench so cut my losses and buggered off with one of the locals instead.

The morning after I realised that I may have read it wrong and N may have been saying that he was shy and was unsure that I really fancied him. I then decided to give it one more chance and that night I went into his bedroom naked. Turns out that I was right in the first instance and he wanted me to leave him alone.

I know that getting knocked back by a bloke when you are stood there naked would be a bit embarrassing to some people but I left the room feeling pretty pleased with myself as I knew he would be burning in a wicker statue in a few days time.

Yes I know I’m a slut.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Tue 23 Feb 2010, 15:03, 2 replies)

Checkout
Walking into my local minimarket I was metaphorically knocked sideways. No, not by the sort of prices that only a big league Columbian drugs baron could afford, but by the bored looking teenage girl working behind the counter. I had a hankering for a garlic sausage sandwich and sex. Realizing prostitutes were out of my price range I settled on the sandwich instead.

Bread – check. Butter – check. Garlic sausage – check. (I was single at the time and my fridge was just a place to cool my beer down in. I think I had some Worcestershire sauce, soy sauce, and half a box of cornflakes in my kitchen at the time).

I go over to the till. The bored looking girl rings the items through and I stood there looking like a sad lonely bachelor about to spend the evening eating garlic sausage sandwiches while wanking over internet porn. The girl gets to the garlic sausage. A long phallic chunk of garlicy goodness. She tries to ring it through. It doesn’t work. She examines the barcode, realizes its scrunched up and proceeds to flatten it out with her hands.

I stood and watched, gulping down air as this bored teenager proceeded to wank off my sausage with dexterity and expertise. It was like watching a sex ninja perform the perfect handjob. I just couldn’t let it pass.

“Now that’s a lucky sausage,” I remarked.

She gazed up at me, realizing what it looked like she was doing. And – thankfully – she smiled and let out a little laugh. “All part of the service,” she said in the most smutty way imaginable.

And then I was hooked. For the next week I made a point of visiting my local minimarket every night on my way home from work. By the end of the week my fridge was stocked with a veritable smorgasbord of phallic shaped food items. She was only a kid, it was only a bit of harmless flirting, but it sort of passed the time.

Then the next time I went in there I was greeted by Mr Shah’s familiar screwed up old face. Feeling a little disappointed as his crabby old hands rang through my wares, I said: “That girl you had in here last week. Between you and me, she was a bit of a goer. The things she said she’d do with a Pepperami. Pwhhoooo!”

Mr Shah finished packing my gear.

“And that would be my daughter,” said Mr Shah.
( SpankyHanky, Tue 23 Feb 2010, 13:08, 3 replies)

Shop-girl! Sexy! Death! Resolve!
There's a girl called Carly working in my local corner shop. She's 19, short, slim, with a front and rear view that makes me smile. She's pretty too, pleasant and all-round cute. I've been speaking to her for ages, and now we exchange little gifts (sweets, mainly) and a lot of chat. I know she has a boyfriend who thinks he's a badman, but I don't care about that. She and I have been getting friendly and I thought it was just a nice little bit of fun but I'm now picking up clear signals she likes me too. I'm finding myself tongue-tied, although when her colleague said I'd been looking for her all night, I corrected her and told her I'd been looking for her all my life. She smiled and stroked her hair. I've been trying to build up enough confidence to ask her out for ages.

This weekend has been a bad one. On Friday I had a diarrhoea incident worthy of a lengthy post in its' own right, involving as it did a sprint, begging for a toilet key in a coffee shop and making it to the toilet in time to drop my trousers but without sufficient time to sit down. The upshot was that I coated the seat, cistern and wall with slurry. Very smelly, very nasty and, when told properly, very funny.

On Saturday I woke at 8. I had 29 missed calls from my best mate. I called him back straight away and was told his missus, a close friend of mine, was dead. I sprinted to the house and found police everywhere. I was interviewed as I'd been with her a couple of hours before her death. The current situation is that my best mate is suffering badly, and I've lost a really good friend. A young, pretty girl, well brought up, never used drugs, sensible, kind and thoughtful has died at the age of 23. Clearly, this is really bad. There's not a lot of laughing at mine right now.

However, what it means is that later on today, when Carly starts her shift, I 'm going to go in, tell her how I'm feeling and see what happens. Flirting is all well and good, but the end product would be (will be) brilliant. Life's short, I don't want to miss out on anything.

And she is so sexy. Perfect bum, lovely boobs, flat tummy, pretty, nice smile... Hell, there's no time to waste!

EDIT - It was her day off. Wonderful.
( disasterprone "Pyjamas caused the Holocaust", Sun 21 Feb 2010, 13:36, 6 replies)

And that, kids, is why you shouldn't smoke pot
This is a moral lesson about what happens if you flirt forever and never try to make a move.

I had known this guy for about six months, and we seemed trapped in the "friend zone" where we would send each other texts/various online comments that were slightly sexual but in that way where if our advances were rejected we could just say "I was kidding! I don't actually want to pay you for sex! It was a joke, LOL, how about we forget it happened..."

He kept making these hints about how he loved redheads (yeah, I'm the sexy kind of redhead), and how he liked women with nice feet (fetish-quality feet over here) and so on, but he never grew a pair and tried to bang me.

One fateful night I decided to do that thing where you think about something a whole bunch until you totally blow up at a person instead of having a civilized conversation about what's bothering you. So I sent him a text at 1am: Were you ever planning on trying to fuck me, or what?

What I didn't know is that he had just gotten really high. Long story short, I spent the next two days trying to talk him off the ledge because I had so totally scared the shit out of him and he was paranoid that the question was some sort of trap.


Epilogue: sex.
(Exempt OH WOW, VICODIN, Sun 21 Feb 2010, 3:29, 4 replies)

"Hey, you know why they call you checkout girls?"
"Because I'm staring at your tits. Wait, no, I said it wrong. Because I'm stalking...I'll just go."
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 20 Feb 2010, 15:57, Reply)

miami vice
in october 2008 i went to miami with my friends evie and steph. we were told that the delano was the place to go on a tue night, so come the tuesday, we dressed ourselves up real nice and took ourselves off for some swanky drinks.

unbeknown to us, the delano was that night hosting a property conference. as anyone who works in property can attest, it is a very male dominated world. the result was a bar swarming with men in suits, ranging from the blisteringly hot to the downright dodgy and sleazy. between having (female) breasts and british accents, we were much in demand - frankly there was so much testosterone in there that maggie thatcher would have been in demand - and generally had a great time flirting and being bought drinks left, right and centre.

at least, steph and i did. evie, who had a boyfriend at the time, was being good. so good that she ignored the flirty overtures and come-hither eyes of a million estate agents, and instead was chatting to a nice old man at the bar. his name was richard, and he seemed like a very bright but terminally dull guy. he also looked about 70. now this was the week before the USA elections, and he was holding forth about politics. an hour or so later, richard and evie had made their way to our table, and richard was talking to steph about the british accent and the currency conversion. i know, fascinating chat, but he was very well travelled.

fast forward another couple of hours, and i find richard next to me. he is clearly very drunk by this point, and is swaying on his feet. i am annoyed at the interruption to my flirting with a surveyor, but my mother always taught me to be polite, so i smile at him. and he says the following legendary line...

SO DO YOU GUYS SHAVE YOUR PUSSIES, OR IS IT TRUE THAT ALL ENGLISH GIRLS HAVE SHERWOOD FOREST GOING ON DOWN THERE?

he then proceeded to tell me how he had been drugged by a hooker the night before and how she had stolen his watch, passport and wallet... but then offered me $1,000 for a foursome with evie and steph. clearly he learned his lesson then! as a flirting technique, going after three friends one after the other is never a good thing (it reeeeally fucks off the one in third place, even if you are 70 and minging). but chat about politics, currency and then offensive crudity?

epic epic fail!
( rachelswipe with a fork, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 18:47, 6 replies)

I was working in a bike shop
Yeah, it was late 96 and I was at Uni, working part time time in the bike shop to fund my habit, two Konas and an orange, when in to the work shops walks a beautiful smile with a person attached behind.

All I saw was the smile. She wanted her brakes fixed, I obliged and chatted, sunning my self in the radiance of that smile. She giggled at my lame jokes, I told her how to fix a brake pad right and then I was finished and she rolled her bike away from me.

The other mechanics, a lad of about sixteen, a guy closer to fifty and my mate, about the same age as me, fell about laughing.

They had just seen me flirting with a rather ugly, rather spotty, gap toothed, track suited, over weight Ginger girl.

All I saw was the warmest smile in the world. I still feel no shame. Where ever you are ugly, spotty ginger girl, I hope it made your day.
( Rev. Jayneflakes Buy my book, I need the cash for drugs and hookers, Fri 19 Feb 2010, 8:20, 4 replies)

15, on a school camp at a local beach to observe the path of an ancient glacier
student teacher, about 19 or 20, not particularly attractive but a nice, "sporty", figure, always very chatty and friendly towards me - now I realise was flirting outrageously.
me, incredibly shy, with not a lot of experience.
She asked if i could give her a hand unloading the bus - meanwhile, unknown to me, the rest of the students and teachers had gone for a walk up the beach.
When we finished she went into a tent and laid down, saying "you must be tired, come and have a rest". I did and she moved over next to me. I just lay there looking up at the roof of the tent while she chatted and kept brushing against me.
Then I heard shouting, the headmaster and paid us a surprise visit and his car was bogged on the beach. I had to go and help push.

We met up 18 years later when she was the deputy principal at my kid's school. She asked me if I remembered the incident. When I said yes, she said "that was just bad timing, I was so horny, lucky you had to go or I would have been in big trouble".

SHIT, SHIT, SHIT
(wallynothere rnot without protection, Thu 18 Feb 2010, 23:20, 3 replies)