There seems to be a drought of actual stories this week
It's time to rectify that - so sit down, get yourself comfy, and let me tell you the tale of...(dramatic pause)...Fiona, my one true iffy crush.

Our story begins many moons ago (and no, I won't say how many), in a high school in Scotland, in the middle of morning registration

wavylineswavylineswavylineswavylineswavylineswavylineswavylineswavylineswavylineswavylines

As usual, I was sitting beside my good buddy and occasional partner-in-crime Craig, having a heated discussion about the merits of the latest pop craze or TV show it was cool to like. We were so caught up in our discussion, we barely paid any attention to the rest of the room, until Mr Carr (our registration teacher) cleared his throat, and announced, "Class, I'd like you to meet our newest pupil."

Irritated by having our conversation interrupted, I grudgingly turned my head to look with barely-concealed contempt...

And froze.

Standing there, beside Mr Carr's desk, was the most beautiful girl I had ever laid eyes on. She stood, shyly clutching a folder, eyes on the ground. She was gorgeous. I couldn't move, couldn't speak, could barely think - it was as if I had been electrocuted. I could feel an incredible tension throughout my entire body, and I became uncomfortably aware of my heart beating in my chest. As I stared and fought to control my breathing, lest it give me away, Mr Carr continued, "Her name is Fiona. It's her first day here, so if she needs any help and directions, I want you all to help her out."

Her eyes flickered upwards for a second, and briefly caught mine before she lowered them again. I felt my heart begin to beat even faster - her eyes! Oh, God, her eyes. The burned themselves into my soul. I had never felt this way before - this incredible, painful attraction and desire for another person. As Mr Carr motioned her to a spare desk, I dealt with my new-found crush in the time-honoured tradition; by turning to my mate, and saying, "Woah, did you get a load of the new girl?"

"Aye, what a munter" he said dismissively. "It's a shame we never get any decent-looking birds in this place"

"What?!" My mouth must have dropped open in shock. "You think she's a munter?"

"Total dog. I wouldn't touch her with yours. Now, as I was saying..."

As Craig restarted our previous conversation, I just sat there in shock, barely joining in. How could he think she was in any way ugly? She was beautiful. It didn't make any kind of sense. So I just sat there, saying very little, while desperately resisting the temptation to turn round and gaze at her.

The bell rang, and we filed out of the room - she was sat near the front, so I lost sight of her in the melee. It turned out she wasn't in any of my classes that morning, so I spent most of the day in a state of distraction, longing to see her again, yet fretting over what I would actually say to her if our paths did cross. I was a wreck, and I'd only seen the girl for a few minutes - I was suffering from the strange kind of obsessive love which only either teenagers or psycho stalkers seem to feel.

Walking between classes, I suddenly spotted her up ahead in the corridor, staring shyly at the floor while shuffling along with everyone else. She was heading towards me, and my stomach flipped out. Oh God, maybe I should talk to her? But what would I say?

As she passed me, the boy who was walking in front of me suddenly caught sight of her, and said, loudly, "Jesus, what an utter minger" As his mates burst out laughing, she turned, looking puzzled, then when she realised they were laughing at her a look of pain flashed across her face. Before I could do or say anything, she was past me. I fumed inside, yet I was also puzzled - she was gorgeous. It couldn't be just my imagination - she genuinely was. So why did everyone else seem to think differently?

After making it through the morning, I headed for lunch in the company of Craig and Tom - Tom was one of Craig's mates, and was the kind of cocky, loud-mouthed one-of-the-lads wankers that seemed to proliferate in high school. Still, he was a mate of a mate, so I put up with him.

Tom was dominating the conversation as usual, probably telling us one of his many (bullshit) stories, when all of a sudden, I noticed her heading the other way again. She had her eyes glued to the ground yet again, hugging a folder to her chest. Her long, blonde hair lay around her shoulders, and her perfect porcelain face looked both beautiful, and fragile.

As we passed her, Tom turned to her, and bellowed, "Hey, Lassie. Shouldn't you have a leash on? Hahaha, what a dog"

I think we both reached the end of our tether at the same time. As I started to say, "Shut up Tom, you massive wanker," she stopped, hugged her folder tighter, and burst into tears. Massive sobs wracked her slim frame, and tears streamed down her eyes. She made no move to cover her face or move away - she just stood there, and cried.

At that moment, I knew what I had to do. Ignoring my inner instinct, which was screaming at me to not make a fool of myself, I stepped forward, and spread my arms. She looked at me, uncomprehending, before I stepped forward and threw my arms around her.

Ignoring the mocking cheers behind me, I held her against me, feeling her sobs grow weaker. She detached a hand from her folder to wipe her eyes, then gazed up at me. As I stared into her gorgeous face, with its delicate nose, large eyes, and sumptuous mouth, I found myself saying, "My God, you're beautiful."

She sniffed, and whispered, "So why does everyone keep calling me ugly."

I sighed deeply. "Well," I said, "going by most of the posts on this QOTW, no-one seems to be able to tell the difference between someone who is unmistakeably attractive, and someone who no sane person could fancy."

"Really?" She looked at me. "But wouldn't that make them fucking idiots?"

"Yes," I said. "Yes it would"

True story
(Godwin's Lawyer is more evil than Hitler, Tue 11 Oct 2011, 23:49, 14 replies)

Just two calories
Towards the end of secondary school my pubic hairs were getting well established, I’d had several surprise nocturnal incidents, and my voice was dipping humorously across the octaves. The only thing left to do to complete my adolescent bingo card was develop an all consuming obsession with a member of the opposite sex.

My school was large – there were around a thousand pupils in it at any one time, so roughly 500 girls. My friends were a little ahead of me, and would discuss in brilliantly misguided detail how they’d ‘hump’ some pretty girl or other given half the chance. “I bet you could get four fingers in her,” “I bet she’s wicked at tossing off,” etc etc. They largely stuck to the obvious choices – girls none of us had ever spoken to, and who were inevitably hand-in-hand with one of the hard lads. Gobby lasses, the kind who’d tell you to fuck off if you accidentally walked into them, making you spend the rest of the day bright red and nervous with a secret stiffy. Great years, they were.

For some reason though, I was drawn to someone else. Someone I’d never seen with a boy, and who to my knowledge, was unfancied by anyone. I confessed this to my three best mates in our den one night, in my back garden, only to be met with wild hoots of derision. “She’s got a face like a fucking horse!” “Her arse is MASSIVE!” “She’s a stuck-up miserable devil bitch!” The consensus was: what the fuck do you see in her?

Quite simply, she liked Tic Tacs. And I fucking LOVED Tic Tacs. And don’t believe their bollocks about being low calorie, because I lived on those little sugar pills and I was a bonafide fucking blimp.
I learnt of our shared passion for minty obesity when I was stood outside a classroom at break, shaking the fucking things into my jowels like a sow on a bushel of acorns. She broke away from her gaggle of friends and skipped up to me – “Can I have a Tic Tac please?”
I stopped and stared cautiously at her, mouth full of sugar. What did she really want? But there was nothing in her angelic equine face other than a youthful hunger for tooth decay – a look with which I sympathised entirely. I mumbled “Um humf” and shook a few into her open hand. She beamed at me – I’d never been ‘beamed’ at by a girl before – said thank you, and pranced back to her mates. I watched them from a distance, waiting for them to whisper, look over at me and burst out laughing. Nothing.
After the class had finished I was shuffling out and already rooting in my pocket for some sweety goodness. Then there she was, at my side again.
“Thanks for the Tic Tac earlier.”
“Ummm, yeah. Right. No problem.”
“Could I have another please?”

And there it began. If I had Tic Tacs, she spoke to me. If I gave her Tic Tacs, she was grateful. Tic Tacs, it seemed, made me a goddamn diabetes-prone chick magnet. Oo ra.
This went on for the rest of the year. Our relationship barely developed from giving and receiving sweets, but it was all I looked forward to all day. I had a renewed spring in my heavy step. My slouched posture was vaguely more proud. My friends, of course, mocked me without mercy. “Ooh, there’s your fucking horse over there, are you going to go and feed her then, you fucking weirdo? Don’t forget your nose bag.” I didn’t care. To me she was perfect. An angel with a thirst for confectionary that almost rivalled my own.

The school year came to an end. After the last lesson of term I was hanging around the car park waiting for my mates, and up she sprang. I happily reached for my little box of trusty friends.
“Oh, no, I don’t want any thanks.”
This was new.
She passed me a piece of paper.
“I just thought I’d give you this, in case, you know, you wanted to meet up over the summer.”
It had a phone number written on it.
“So, see you soon I hope.”
And off she went onto her bus.

I was completely dumbfounded. That first week of the holidays I could barely think straight. By the second week I was calmer and wondering what to do. The third week I had got to the point of dialling five of the six digits before hanging up, gasping with anxiety. And finally, four weeks into the summer, I called her. It was a painful call, filled with the awkward cack-handedness and evasion of fatness and youth, but somehow we managed to arrange a time to meet in town.
If I thought that call was bad, the walk to meet her was even worse. My body was wracked with tremors and flutters, my face kept going pointlessly hot, and I nearly turned around and went home several times, to the comfort of mum, chips and Spectrums – where there was none of this weird lovely awfulness. But, I didn’t turn around.

We met in a cafe and had a cup of tea. She wittered on about her summer so far, her friends, her family, her horses. It was the most she’d ever said to me. True to form, I sat there silently, desperately trying to think of interesting and funny things that had happened, wishing I was a hard lad so I could at least impress her with a fight I’d won, but other than a few SMASHING goes on International Karate Plus I had nothing.
And then she said it. Two decades hasn’t dulled the impact of the words at all.
“By the way, I’ve got a new boyfriend.”

Nothing she said registered for the next five minutes. My expression didn’t change, but my sight narrowed to the point where only my teacup was visible. A red, roaring noise drowned out everything. There was nothing at that table but me and the world-ending, horrible sickness of your first ever proper rejection.
We carried on for an hour or so, her talking and me seeming to listen, but actually just wondering what the fuck I was doing, where I was, what was going on. Something seemed to register, because at last she said “Are you ok?”
I suppose there wasn’t much point continuing the facade any longer.
“Dunno”
“What’s the matter?”

I looked straight at her for probably the first time that day, and began muttering a load of rubbish about being tired, being late, needing to go, got to meet my friends. Just waffle, something to fill the silence until I could leave without admitting anything, without letting on why I’d turned up. But somewhere, deep within my burgeoning balls, there was an idiotic and brilliant voice that needed to be heard –

“And I’d been wondering what it would be like to kiss you.”

That hung in the air for a moment.

And to this day, I’m happy to report that it tasted like Tic Tacs.

Iffy crushes? It was the best one I’ve ever had.
( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Fri 7 Oct 2011, 11:55, 15 replies)

I had this story
relayed to me by a gentleman I will refer to only as The Spy. I'd heard it before, in garbled, retold versions from others, as you often hear the anecdotes of friends of friends, but last year I heard the tale from his own lips and in his own words, in an all-you-can-eat brazilian restaurant, where I sat with my old chum The Doob, who is said mutual friend, and The-Spy's-sister-who-is-the-doob's-current-girlfriend.

At the time of our tale, it was the mid 90s, and The Doob and I had both quit our first university in mild disgrace. While I had drifted back towards my family, the Doob had moved to the city in the west country where his then-girlfriend attended university. While they squeezed into a single bed in one room of their shared house, The Spy lived in another.

One of the defining characteristics of the mid 90's, at least as far as a lot of people I knew were concerned, was being into stuff other people weren't, primarily musically. Life in a provincial city such as the one in which they all lived didn't lend itself well to this, as most bands skip town for London or Manchester or wherever. The Spy had a way around this, involving relatives in the smoke and his own car.

The Spy had planned a trip to London to go to a gig, and was taking with him his friend The Prop. The Prop had then asked if they could bring along a guy he knew, The Subject. The Spy had shrugged and agreed, so long as he threw in his cut of the petrol money. It was early in the morning, and they threw their stuff in the boot of the car. The Prop had a hangover and opted for the back seat, where he promptly fell asleep, and effectively plays no further part in this narrative. The Subject sat in the front passenger seat while The Spy drove. The countryside blurred past in faint autumn sunlight. Although they had met each other before, they had never had a prolonged conversation. They had stilted exchanges, then periods of silence.

Eventually they turned to the concert they were attending that evening. The Spy asked The Subject what he thought of the headline act. The Subject replied that they were ok, but they weren't really his bag. What he was going for, he stated, was the main support act, or rather one member of said band.

"Have you been to this venue before?" asked The Subject
"Yeah" replied The Spy
"You know the support acts often have stands and stuff where they sell merchandise?"
"Yeah, I suppose". The Spy had noticed them but not paid much attention to them.
"After they've got off stage, I'm going to find the singer of that support band, and I'm going to try and fuck her" The Subject had an unrealistic belief that he was something of a ladies' man.
"She nice then, is she?"
"She's well fit, mate, well fit. Been banging them out over her for weeks"
"Which band is this again?"
The Subject told The Spy the band's name. The Spy had heard of them, and raised his eyebrows slightly. They were on the up, but certainly not household names. Having confessed his intentions this became a watershed for The Subject, and he revisited the topic every half an hour or so. He was, he said, definitely going to fuck her.

They completed the journey, dropped their gear off at the house they were staying at, headed out and went to the concert. They got there midway through the openers, as everyone always seems to do, then watched the main support perform the slightly-truncated-ends-on-best-song set that support acts always perform. The Subject watched lustily as the singer of said band bade the crowd farewell and departed the stage. As The Subject had predicted, the singer re-appeared by a display of tshirts and cds that anyone impressed enough with their performance could purchase.

"Here we go" said The Subject, and made a b-line for the singer. The Spy sauntered after him, wanting to see how it panned out. The Subject began to get the jitters. The Spy offered to introduce them, and The Subject, at a loss for what else to do, accepted.

The Spy bowled up to the merchandise stand and leaned on it with his elbow. The Subject stood next to him while his jaw gaped and he caught flies.

"Anyway", said The Spy, "Brian, this is my friend The Subject, The Subject, this is Brian". He patted The Subject on the shoulder, wished him luck and strolled away while staying in earshot.

Brian Molko, lead singer of the not-yet-very-famous Placebo wondered what the hell just happened.

The Subject stammered and said something about wanting to know the price of a tshirt. He didn't say much else for the rest of the evening.

This is the second qotw answer I've got out of Placebo. Fancy.
( cs1ca, Sun 9 Oct 2011, 0:44, 8 replies)

Got to be The Queen
Simply to see if she tastes of stamps...you know, down there
(Godwin's Lawyer is more evil than Hitler, Thu 6 Oct 2011, 16:24, 2 replies)

If I die in my sleep tonight
my internet search history from trying to figure out who half these people are is going to make it look like I've wanked myself to death over a serious of dubiously attractive women.

Actually, I may have.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Thu 6 Oct 2011, 20:19, 3 replies)

Baroness Thatcher
Hear me out.

Not nowadays obviously, but back in her prime as the dynamic, groundbreaking, most important woman in the world heyday.

Imagine if you will the thrill of an illicit liaison in the corridors of power...

You in your sharp pin-stripe whistle, the PM in a racing green tartan suit with shoulderpads and the finest pearls on her pale neck, her blouse open just enough for you to get an idea of the lazy curve that leads to her puffy, ginger-girl breasts.

She beckons you into her private office and once the oak door slides shut behind you she grabs you by the tie and pulls you over to her desk.

Over the next few minutes she strips you to you Churchs and sockgarters, ordering you to spread yourself across the green leather of her desktop. Her voice is commanding but unlike her usual powerful oratory there is a hint of derision. She intends to fuck you like everyone else.

Looking back over your shoulder you see the baroness in all her glory, a metallic strapon clamped over her M&S unmentionables, startled, you turn to face her both appalled and aroused as you realise the true origin of her nickname 'The Iron Lady'.
( WormuIus, Thu 6 Oct 2011, 16:48, 9 replies)

I had my car clamped, towed away and taken to the compacter.
Only a foot or so of it was on a double yellow.
:(
( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Thu 6 Oct 2011, 15:21, 7 replies)

Hugh Lennon (is not my crush)
Hugh Lennon later became vaguely well known for Hypno-Dog, but back in 1992 he was just a jobbing hypnotist doing the Student Union Bar rounds. If I recall, his show was free as part of my Fresher's Week (along with a ticket for The Pogues featuring Joe Strummer, brilliantly) which is why I ended up watching. I watched my heavy metal freak new flatmate prove that he knew all the words to 'Bad' along with most of the dance moves. In fact, being a skinny, weird looking white bloke dressed head to toe in black, he looked uncannily like the real thing. I watched a girl I don't know eat an onion like it was an apple and a couple of guys get electric shocks everytime they sat on their chairs. And then I watched Mai, the Malaysian Medical Student, as he was taken to the front of a stage, put in his trance and told he was in a room and no one else could see him and to describe his surroundings. What followed, while hilarious to me at the time, is what has left me with a lifelong distaste for stage hypnotism, because it's fucking cruel. Mai described a bedroom, described being tied down on a bed. Hugh Lennon said something like 'Your ideal woman has just walked in, can you tell us who is there with you?'. And we laughed, cruelly and spitefully when he answered 'Virginia Bottomly'.

I think that would have been hard enough to live down as the first impression you make on 250 of your fellow fresher's. But Hugh wasn't done with the nastiness, not by a long shot.

'And what is (snigger) Virginia Bottomly doing?'

'She's pushing a broom handle up my bum'.

Poor, poor Mai.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Tue 11 Oct 2011, 14:37, 13 replies)

Big Gay Rhys
In the spirit of 'trying to tell more of a story' it is time to tell the story of Big Gay Rhys.

Well, you can work out a lot about him from his name. He was Welsh. He was 6'3". And he was gay.
Not camp-as-a-row-of-pink-frilly-chiffon-tents gay, just normal-guy-who-happens-to-prefer-cock gay.
He was part of the bunch of lads with whom I used to watch the rugby and drink, back in my uni days. But on one fateful night of post-match-boozing, the conversation turned to fuckable celebrities. Everybody else in the group ran off the predictable list of unattainable ladies, but Big Gay Rhys stayed silent. He'd only come out to us very recently, and was still shy about it.

Me: "Come on Rhys. We're all open-minded guys here. We know you're gay."
Rhys: "I can't. It's dead embarrassing."
Me: "Rhys. It's nearly Christmas. In two weeks, you've got to go home and pretend to like that ginger girl from the chipshop, for your Nan's sake. Get it off your chest."
Rhys: "But..."
Me: "We won't think any less of you, whatever you say."
Rhys: "...you promise?"
Me (looking round my cohorts' carefully serious faces): We promise.
Rhys: Well...him off Star Trek, like.
Me: What, Captain Kirk? Mister Spock? That bald guy?
Rhys: mumble mumble
Me: Sorry mate, didn't quite catch that.
Rhys: mumble mumble mumble..
Me: Speak up there, man!
Rhys: WESLEY FUCKING CRUSHER, ALRIGHT?
...
Rhys: Only when he was grown-up, only when he was grown-up!
...

And that is the story of how Captain Rhys got his name.
His Nan thinks he was on the rugby team, and if anybody ever tells his Da what 'boldly going' actually referred to, he'll be cut off in a jiffy.
(universalpsykopath loves what you've done with your hair., Fri 7 Oct 2011, 10:10, 4 replies)

That one with the stumpy arm from cbeebies
Is it me or does it look like a bellend poking out the end of her sleeve? Maybe her doin the wife with her stump whilst im doing her?
( Moogen, Thu 6 Oct 2011, 17:36, 7 replies)

If I could shag anyone, dead or alive,
I'd shag a dead Madonna.
(Raol Duke, Thu 6 Oct 2011, 15:51, 2 replies)

My mum. Let me explain . . .
I’d love to try to bury my way, face first, back into the cunt she squirted me out of all those years ago, lapping up the last gritty mucal productions of her grey, mottled sagging clunge, with two fingers buried up to the knuckle in her quivering haemorrhoid-ringed arsehole.

Pausing only for another two deep, heavy snorts of amyl nitrate, after gently tracing her hysterectomy scar with my pulsing angry cock, I’d tear back into passionately tounging her knackered fuck-hole, bringing her to a fierce screaming orgasm, before flipping her round and stuffing my throbbing cock deep inside her greasy, pre-fingered anus, pumping her as hard as i could, her deflated tits flapping with each thrust.

Eventually, when her cries of pleasure turn to yelps of pain, i can take my excitement no more, and end up spunking wad after wad of my hot, creamy fucklove into her collapsed fudge tunnel.

In the back of my uncles Honda accord.

With my dad, knocking on the window, delivering a Meat Feast thin and crispy waiting to be savoured in my post orgasmic bliss, while my mum nips back into the house to put the kettle on.

With the grease from the pizza, i draw a heart shape on the window, fart idly, but realise that i am SO relaxed, i follow through, drenching the back seats if a quagmire of my stinking effluent.

Looking round embarrassed, i see my mum returning with the tea, but before she gets back into the car, she notices the revolting diarrhoea soaked back seats, her mouth falling open with shock . .

. . . or is it lust?

She climbs back into the car, and tells me “Don’t worry son. Don’t worry. We all have accidents from time to time.” and leans in to kiss me, to let me know that everything is going to be oK.

Our mouths meet, and open, our tongues exploring each others mouths like love-sick slugs, and she gathers a handful of the liquid shit we are both sitting in, making sure her whole hand is covered. She pulls my head back by the hair, so i can get a proper look at her sliding her fist, lubricated by shit, deep into her glistening, dusty cunt.

It doesn’t take her long to cum this time, she arches her back and lets out along animalistic moan, before pulling her fist out of herself and letting me suck her fingers dry.

“Happy birthday, son,” she says.

"I love you, mum” I'd say.

“I know, son,” she says, stroking my hair, “I know.”




Just . . the answers were getting a bit dull.
First time post, and all.
(SigourneysBeaver took off and nuked the entire site from orbit on, Tue 11 Oct 2011, 17:27, 27 replies)

I let my missus go on top.

( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Fri 7 Oct 2011, 16:18, 9 replies)

Short cuts.
Here's a handy short cut to help you with the rest of this weeks answers. As there is minimal effort going in anyway, I may as well make it even easier.


(INSERT FIRST NAME) (INSERT SURNAME) : I would (insert word from list A) a (Insert word(s) from list B) IN/UP/DOWN/ON (delete as applicable) HER (CHOOSE FROM LIST C)

LIST A:

Throw
Chuck
Tip
Put
Send
Hurl
Lob
Whack
Jam
Ram
Wham
Bam
Smack
Push
Drive
Squirt
Spurt


LIST B

Load
mouthful
weight
handful
bucket
wad
wodge
cock
knob
rod
pink oboe
stiffy
fist
forearm
head
trouser adder
wee man
handful of gravel
12 lords a leaping


LIST C

face
chest
chuff
poop chute
next door neighbour




Here's a list of handy names for you that I don't believe have been used yet, in case you need more help


Bella Emburg
That woman from the old fat ballet dancers
Jilly Cooper
Edwina Curry
The Virgin Mary
Mother Theresa
Daisy Duck

And for the really, truly disturbed and depraved: Jodie Marsh.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 7 Oct 2011, 15:20, 9 replies)

Missed opportunity
When I was in the 11th grade, there was this German foreign exchange student named Wilkie that I thought was amazingly beautiful. She was divine in every respect. I pined over her and wished to spend time with her but could not bring myself to talk to her for fear of rejection. What would she want with a guy like me? That year was pure torment and the amazing grace and beauty that was Wilkie went back to Germany after that year was over. Fast forward 6 years. I had attended art school and did a tour in the Marine Corps and then returned to my home town to live with a girl I knew back then. After a period of time, I learned that her family was the host for Wilkie back in high school. As Wilkie's visage still haunts me to this day, I had to admit to my girlfriend that I had a crush on Wilkie back then. She then told me that she was reluctant to talk about it for obvious reasons, but Wilkie could never shut up about this guy she saw in school. Wilkie talked about me all the time but couldn't bring herself to reveal her feelings for me for the same reasons that I could not talk to her. Fortunately, I was young enough at the time to learn this lesson and have since applied it to my life. She doesn't know it, but Wilkie gave me a legacy of manhood that is more precious than diamonds or a lipstick ring. We never said a word to each other, but I will always remember that fear of rejection is no reason not to try.
(jeligula, Sat 8 Oct 2011, 3:16, 1 reply)

Annie
From Thomas the Tank Engine




Just look at that eager mouth
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Mon 10 Oct 2011, 23:31, 10 replies)

First Love.
I don't think I've ever told anyone this, but there was a girl at my school who had something wrong with her spine. She had to use a wheelchair most of the time, but there was just something about her. I couldn't ever speak of it, because school kids being evil school kids I would never have lived it down. She didn't get too much stick from people herself, apart from by the real cunts, but to admit to fancying her would have been social suicide. It kind of crept up on me one summer when her pain wasn't too bad and she was walking with some tatty metal walking stick things that she didn't use very often. But to see her walking, the sun shining on her hair, the smile on her face, even if the supports were dented and rusty and held together with gaffer tape, something about it touched me and made me look at her in a different way. I don't think I ever did get over those iffy crutches.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Thu 6 Oct 2011, 16:51, 2 replies)

Iffy crushes
my thumbs any harder I'll tell him where the sleeper cells are.
( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Fri 7 Oct 2011, 19:59, Reply)

My mate's wife
I'd always liked her. But gradually, like turned into attraction, which turned into lust, which turned into a crush, which turned into a desperate, all-consuming, obsessive desire to jungle-fuck her till her fillings rattled. I would have crawled a million miles over broken glass just to wank on her shadow.

But I kept it to myself. After all, they were both mates, and I'm not a bastard. Not that she would ever have strayed, anyway - I knew she took fidelity seriously (which is probably why I managed to be so virtuous, of course...) It wasn't easy; I don't think I've ever wanted anyone so badly. I'm surprised my balls didn't explode every time I was in the same room as her.

Then, one fateful day, I heard that their marriage was in trouble. This was hardly a surprise; even at the wedding reception, we'd all been running a sweepstake on how long it would last. No-one went higher than two years; one bid was two weeks. And I remember quipping to another mate that I hoped I'd be around to "offer comfort" to her when the marriage did implode, as it surely would.

But now joking had become reality. Rumours abounded that he was desperately looking for a way out. He was hoping she'd have an affair, so it would be easy to end things. He was apparently asking mates if they'd like to "Take her off his hands"!*

He even suggested this to me, though he had no inkling of the warm spot I had for her**. Naturally I declined, because I'm not a complete bastard. And clearly the correct thing to do would be to wait until they were formally broken up before making any kind of move - at least by an hour or so. It's just politeness.

And that's what I did. I can highly recommend fulfilling an apparently impossible obsession, if you get the chance. All those desperate longings for the unreachable girls of my youth were erased by the delivery of what felt like an imperial pint of semen into this golden-haired angel.

OK, so this isn't a crap RomCom, so we didn't end up together in the long term. The obsession burned out, in the end. But we're still friends; in fact we swap babysitting duties these days.


* Yes, he was a complete arse.

** A mattress.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Fri 7 Oct 2011, 13:28, 3 replies)

kids mostly
really young kids
( mictoboy shitting in your cunt since, Thu 6 Oct 2011, 20:12, 2 replies)

Liza Tarbuck
Massive norks and a really filthy laugh.

Would like to roll about with her.
(Kia Ora it's 2 orangey 4 crows, it's just 4 me and my dog, Thu 6 Oct 2011, 18:09, 3 replies)

Kate Mccann
Who might be top of a few people's lists, but not the way I imagine it. Maybe you're familiar with the sex-version of bucking bronco, in which you say the name of an ex whilst shagging your current, then see how long you can hold on for.

Well, that's what I'd like to try with Mrs Mccann, except instead of an ex's name, I'd shout "come on, you did it didn't you?".

Also works for Amanda Knox.
( Sheriff John Bunnell https://twitter.com/thewonderfulgam, Tue 11 Oct 2011, 21:14, 1 reply)

Internet cunt Rob Manuel

( Wasp Box like a nervous random stranger at a glory hole, Thu 6 Oct 2011, 15:35, 2 replies)

Sarah Beeny
Her off of Property Ladder. She could flog my semi anytime.

My other half hates her various foibles (such as being knocked up in 95% of everything she has ever appeared in, THAT denim jacket and her headmistress-like patronizing tone she uses with the frankly stupid developers on her show)... but those boobs are just huge.!
(elfinpunk Touching Cloth Since, Thu 6 Oct 2011, 15:18, 6 replies)

Definitely iffy, extremely short, entirely accidental
I was sitting on a bench in a community centre, drinking tea while I idly watched some Chinese people in giant inflatable animal suits trying to get through the narrow doors. Don't ask.

I'm aware that someone has sat beside me, but don't pay much attention. When I do happen to look that way, my eyes are drawn to a rather spectacular cleavage: a plunging neckline and push-up bra combined with flawless alabaster skin -- the kind of skin (and cleavage) that only teenage girls have, and which an entire industry exists to try to convince women they can preserve. I guessed she was about 17; I couldn't see her face for the moment as she's looking the other way, so I simply enjoy the view for a few seconds.

...Until she looks around, and I suddenly want the earth to open up and swallow me, as I realise it's my ex-girlfriends daughter. A girl who I was effectively step-father to for over a year, when she was about 4.

Didn't help at all that, when she saw me, she jumped up and gave me a big hug.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Wed 12 Oct 2011, 17:21, 3 replies)

Now that this QOTW has long since run out of real answers,
what we need is wave upon wave of gut-churningly awful, convoluted shaggy dog stories and other puns on the phrase "Iffy crushes" that make you feel like you've just wasted five minutes of your life reading them to tide us over till Thursday. It's the only ingredient missing so far. Remember, folks:

Good QOTW = stories
Bad QOTW = crippling social retards and shite puns.
( .Yeti. El amor en los tiempos del cólera, Mon 10 Oct 2011, 18:04, 7 replies)

Fuck! Biscuit!
Am I alone in thinking that the woman with Tourrette's on that Stephen Fry show last night was utterly...FUCK...adorable...BISCUIT?
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Mon 10 Oct 2011, 10:22, 4 replies)

Trying too hard.
If I was gay, which I most definitely am not and have never considered it, I have always been 100% hetrosexual since, like, before I even knew what hetrosexuality was. I mean, i came out of the womb and the first thing I did was put a tit in my mouth, and it wasn't my mothers it was the fit nurses! Phwoar. But IF I was gay, and I should stress I like milk milks and mimsies too much to be that way and I don't ever think about big, hard, glistening, gorgeous, tasty cocks between my lips spurting their salty goodness down my throat, but IF I was gay, I'd definitely let Rodney from Stargate Atlantis do me hard and deep for hours until I couldn't shit straight.


But i'm not gay.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 7 Oct 2011, 16:34, 7 replies)

Susannah Doyle
AKA Joy Merryweather in "Drop The Dead Donkey". Something about her just says to me "dirty bitch in the bedroom."

Need I say any more?
( betpet is the fun in dysfunctional, Fri 7 Oct 2011, 15:11, 7 replies)

Tenuous, you say? Not even fucking close, you say? A fucking PEA, you say? Oh alright, then.
I was just 13, and my French exchange student chum was - in my eyes, at least - unutterably cool. He liked U2, could name several other bands, didn't smile when he had his photo taken, and could dance - boy could he dance! I could just about move from foot to foot, looking embarassed. He could spin 'round and do the robot and everything.

There was a disco in our little Somerset village hall, and we were allowed to go to it - oh joy! There would be, I told him, girls there. He just shrugged gallicly, and I said that we could probably get some cider as well, at which he shrugged, gallicly.

We got there, and the DJ was at the other end of the hall, the music was pumping, the bass line thumping, the lights were glowing and there were THREE girls, sitting at a table, near the DJ, near the speakers.

Well, obviously they needed chatting up, so we flipped a coin, and I lost.

Being English, and being a gentleman, I took a long swig of cider, and squared up to my duty.

I strode down the middle of the long hall towards the girls, the music pumping, the bass thumping, the lights glowing.

I got within shouting distance; the music pumping, the bass thumping. I knew I was in shouting distance, because one of the girls turned round and shouted

"No thanks."
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 7 Oct 2011, 13:30, 4 replies)