It had been on my mind for some time,
"Going to Dunstable."
It's not something I'd ever really thought about, until I saw it mentioned on one of those titillatory television documentaries about the strange things some people do to get themselves off. And it was only after some creepy middle-aged man described it, and how much he enjoyed it, that I started to consider it. Going to Dunstable.

Going to Dunstable? The more I thought about it, the more it seemed to excite me. By the end of this so-called documentary I was tenting harder than a pubescent scout camp. No sexual partner had ever really satisfied me properly before, and hell, Mittens would never feel the same again even if the vet did manage to fix her up. Perhaps this strange practice was the key, the turn-on that I needed.

I decided. It was time for me to go to Dunstable.

And this was how I found myself, on a bitterly cold and drizzly night, in some godforsaken spot amongst the trees and brambles behind the golf course on Wimbledon Common, waiting for a stranger. A stranger who also wanted to go to Dunstable.

Headlights flashed by every so often, just in the distance, dimly illuminating my nervous, sweating figure. Every car that passed, I wondered, could they see me? Would the anonymous drivers notice the shadowy form of that sick, perverted individual who was waiting to go to Dunstable?

I heard twigs snap. I drew in breath sharply, willing myself not to turn around sharply for fear of being spotted. There was only one person I was waiting for; I didn't want to meet another soul because I knew if I did, I'd lose my nerve immediately.

There's only one thing worse than a man that goes to Dunstable, and that's being the man that set out and failed to go to Dunstable.

More twigs snapping. Whoever it was, they were drawing closer. Had they seen me? Was it him? Was it my anonymous date? Could it be anybody else? Why the fuck would anybody else be here in the middle of the night?

More twigs. My blackened heart thumped in my chest like a blacksmith's hammer and as much as I tried to keep my breathing under control I still choked up like a prom queen having an allergic reaction to her boyfriend's semen. I screwed up my eyes just to make the darkness seem darker. He won't find me, he'll pass by, he'll pass by, he'll pass by, I can't do it, I'm giving up, just don't find me, walk on past me and I won't go to Dunstable.

I nearly jumped out of my rain-sodden clothes when a firm hand clapped down on my shoulder.
"Good evening, sir. Do you mind if I ask what you're doing on the common this late at night?"
Choking again. Panicking. What could I say?
"Y-yes officer...I...I was...just...on my way to Dunstable."
(LongJohnBaldry, Fri 26 Mar 2010, 10:09, 3 replies, latest was 15 years ago)

Magnificent.

( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Fri 26 Mar 2010, 10:12, Reply)

Haha!

( girlinthehole, Fri 26 Mar 2010, 10:14, Reply)

Oh man!

( Noeli overtheshoulderboulderholderthingstraplatchboobs, Fri 26 Mar 2010, 10:20, Reply)