Three years.
Before the nutcase mentioned in a previous QOTW (http://www.b3ta.com/questions/stalked/post119130 for the fun and hilarity) there was... well, I'll call her Becca. For that was her name.

It all started out innocently enough. I had just started college. A balmy September it was. My self-esteem and whatnot improving at a phenominal rate since a few years previous. I had started finally talking to people and leaving the house and jogging in the park... y'know, normal things. I was normal. Yes, I liked the label "normal".

I met Becca the following February. I'd occasionally glimpse her while walking home with mutual friends, talking and laughing, and being generally quite loveable and sweet. I developed a bit of a crush. But it wasn't until a trip to the cinema, that I finally got to have any sort of real conversation with her (me, being the sneaky bastard I am, insisted on being the one who bought the tickets; I made sure she was sitting next to me). We kept exchanging glances throughout the movie (Cold Mountain it was, not bad for a first.. er.. "date"), and she found it cute that found a lot of the film funny (if you ever get a chance to watch it, look out for the scene where a dove flies into a window).

Fastfoward to a week later, and she invites me over to a mutual friends house to help out with babysitting and to watch movies. 28 Days Later. Ah, yes, horror - you guessed it, que her jumping at every oppourtunity, usually landing in my lap, or huddling behind my shoulder. I, however, was pretty oblivious to this, simply because I'd never been an object of interest to women up until this point. It wasn't until she said, "I want to kiss you" at the end of the evening that I finally realised that, well... maybe something was going on here. I remember skipping part of the way home that night, giggling the whole time.

So that's how it started. Sweetly and innocently. I was excited. I'd never had a girlfriend before. She loved the same music, played the same instruments, watched the same movies, had the same pets, laughed at the same jokes.. Matoosh had scored.

Or so I thought.

As all things do, the problems creeped in so slowly I couldn't detect what was going on. She wants to come over, but I'm busy revising? One crying fit later and I felt terrible. How could I possibly refuse this poor girl? She has her way. Oh wait, she can't be bothered to go home? The next day too? The following weeks? Ever? Oh that's alright. It's only like I'm doing my exams, it's not as if suddenly having a female presence permanently in residence will do me any harm. And anyhow, if I say no, she cries. A lot. And screams sometimes. She should be the "priority" as the girlfriend, as she reminds me. Often.

Things were getting a tad tense. She would not leave. Ever. Every day she had to see me. At college, following me home in the evening, staying as late as possible, if not the whole night... taking up every waking moment of my day. And I shouldn't even bother trying to do other things while she was there - she could not stand being ignored. But if she was busy doing something? Well, I learnt my place. I didn't want to risk her losing her tempter, again.

And this is not to mention the calls. Oh, yes, the calls. Sometimes I'd put my phone on silent. Sometimes it'd be upstairs where I couldn't hear it. Sometimes I'd be cycling on a main road. But no, this was no excuse. If i didn't pick up instantly, she's call. And call. And then text. And call. I'd usually end up with about 30 or so missed calls, and a dozen texts. "Where are you? Why aren't you picking up? Are you alive? Have you been in an accident? ARE YOU OKAY? MATOOSH? MATOOSH ARE YOU OKAY?" They became increasingly hysterical as time went on. She'd be in fits of crying most voicemails.

And all through this I was thinking, "what the hell have i got myself into? Please, let this end... this is madness... please, just a day to myself, an hour even... just..."

Of course, you say, you should have just dumped her! Kicked her to the curb! Taken out the TRASH. Well, Matoosh argues: I did. I tried. God I tried. But as time went on she wore me down, wore down my resistance, wore down my spirit. I became depressed; i developed anorexia; my running became an obsession as it was the only time i was away from her. This was all during my exams, too. You try splitting up with someone when in that condition.

By the 2nd year of college I was in dire straights. I weighd under 9 stone, at 6 feet tall. I would go to bed at 8pm, completely exhausted - too tired to even speak some nights, though she thought I was being rude by not conversing with her when she came to bed. I'd sleep fitfully, before getting up at 6am to go running, just to get away, just to escape her for those few precious minutes... and, on top of it, i had been roped into a 2 week holiday with her, in celebration of finishing our exams.

Then came crunch time: the unknown illness. One morning my run feels a bit weird; my feet are a tad tingly... but i ignore it. Next day my muscles are pretty damn tight, tingling getting worse, I'm feeling weak... to cut it short: a week later I was lying in a hospital bed, virtually paralysed, hooked up to various tubes, being told there was a chance my lungs would stop working and I'd have to be put on a ventilator. There's a chance I'll never walk again. There's even a slim chance I'll die. As well as the mental anguish, I was in constant physical pain - it felt like a metal rake being dragged down my exposed spine and nerves again, and again, and again... then Becca visits. Her first words? "But what about our holiday?"

Did I dump her? Did I say, then and there, it was over? To hell did I.

I come out of hospital 10 days later, and begin 2 months of physical rehabilitation. Becca visits me at home every day. I'm too weak to even go for my run, my one escape from her. And, inevitibly. I become completely dependent on her. I can't walk up a flight of stairs? She helps me. I can't cut up my own sandwich? She cuts it up. I can't put my socks on? Well, you get the idea...

About 6 months after leaving hospital, I've effectively "recovered" (as in, I could walk down the street unaided). By this point I'd been with her 2 years. My life was in turmoil. My uni plans were cancelled due to my illness - even though I did attempt the first term, it was just too much - so I come home and have to get a full time job. This was a saving grace: time away from Becca... and money! I have my own money! I can afford to buy my own things without having to live off the parents!.. but.. can you see where this is going? She would hint, quite heavily, that I buy her certain things. Books (by the end of it in the hundreds), food, cinema trips, drinks at the pub, meals out, meals in, tickets to see Lion King... she was a student, living away from home, it would be cruel not to treat her to thnigs - at least, that's what she told me. By this point bulimia has kicked in and my depression has me sometimes confined to bed. She's completely aware of this, completely aware that I now can no longer say no. She takes advantage of it. She saps me for every penny. Even when I eventually have to quit my job due to my low moods, living on income support, she keeps leeching, keeps spending every waking moment with me, taking me shopping...

3 years with her now. I start to attend therapy. My moods improve, my food stabilises, I start saying no. She, because of this, starts becoming angry, lashing out at me, occasionally employing physical violence against me. Bruises are left, emotional as well as physical, but I just about hold strong. I say no. I keep saying no. Something deep down in there wants to escape, and it knows the only way is: no. No no, fucking no.

She eventually starts seeing more of her ex-boyfriend, the one before me. Things start happening between them. I'm overjoyed, but at the same time it destroys me - I was still wholly dependent on this woman, despite the pain she had inflicted. One final argument over the phone and she hangs up, pushing me to the edge. I end up in hospital again (guess why for extra points), not sure what's going to happen to me. She turns up, "I don't want to be with you any more, I can't see you again." and leaves. Leaves me on a hospital bed, dizzy, blood pressure crashing as the doctor's try and decide what to do with my test results. She abandons me.

At the time, sheer horror. I was devastated. Now? Greatest fucking day of my life.

I've moved on now (mostly). My various problems are still present, but massively reduced. Still not back at uni, but working on it. I've had girlfriends since, the one directly after was a complete disaster, but the last one... she reaffirmed my faith in people. We broke up a couple of months ago (we're still great friends) - the wounds inflicted by Becca left it difficult for me to commit to anything serious... I become easily stressed if I feel my privacy - so important to me now - being intruded on by another person. Even slightly. I can't let any one in, no one is allowed that close. Not yet.

But y'know what the worst bit was? The absolutely most terrible part of the whole experience with the evil she-devil? Not once, not ONCE, did we have sex. All that for three bloody years, and I don't get any. NOT. ONCE.

Bloody catholics.
( Matoosh would rather like a biscuit, Mon 9 Jun 2008, 0:01, 28 replies)

The story of broken legs man
Again, not particularly proud of this and wouldn't do it again, but I wouldn't allow myself to be treated like that again, so it's a moot point.

Broken legs man and I first met when I was an impressionable 14 year old at YMCA day camps. He was tall, handsome and a whole year older than me. Very charming and outgoing, he went to the local posh school, whereas mine was a highly sought after comprehensive 2km away. He was going out with the camp bike and I was left to the role of best girl mate.

We met up again each summer, sometimes seeing each other during school time if our paths crossed, him looking very smart and cool while I was reduced to blushing and gibbering like a freak until I was 17, but then his mother died and with all the best intentions we lost touch for a while until I went to uni.

He spotted me in a pub back home where I had a new found confidence in myself, lots of friends, four years training in kickboxing, a decent haircut can do wonders as well as good skin which had been the bane of my life until then.

We hooked up and all was good for a few months until for reasons unknown he decided to systematically destroy my life. Not by major things that would be noticed by others, but little things like saying I looked fat in some clothes I liked - I was a size 12 at this point, but lost two stone at his behest, pointing out my weaknesses like intolerance for stupid people, how I should be nicer to his friends - not sure why as they were never nice to me and how all of my friends were shit and didn't like me.

Over the course of two years he basically broke down all my defences and made me feel like crap. He then slept with one of his hideously ugly friends and gave me an STI - not one of the horrible permanent ones thankfully, but enough to be pissed off about. I had no idea at this point that was how I'd got it as he made me think that I had it and passed it onto him. So we split up for the summer and missed each other inbetween burning doses of pain administered by nurses. He got back in touch with me and I jumped at the chance of getting back together as although I'd had plenty of other offers, I was infatuated with the little fucker.

Turned out he didn't have any treatment for his dose of nasties and within a week I was showing symptoms again and wondered why. One of his (nicer) friends took me aside and told me broken legs man had slept with another of their friends and then bragged about how stupid I was as I didn't realise. He then went on to tell me that my initial suspicions of him taking smack on a regular basis were in fact correct and the way he mashed up his chin a few weeks before was not in a car accident, but his dealer seeking to teach him a lesson for not paying up on time and sleeping with one of his bitches.

Armed with this information, plus some other stuff that I'm not going to discuss here I went to see him and when confronted, he laughed in my face. A swift roundhouse brought him down, a couple of punches broke three ribs and a few well times stamps broke his legs. One below the knee and one above the knee. The rising smell of fecal matter necessitated my exit, but not before hocking up a greenie and depositing it on his face.

Aside from everything else, if you're going to cheat on me, make it with someone better looking, not a chavvy minger with shit for brains as that's just insulting.

Apologies for spitting as it's just not ladylike.
( fuck shit up the best you never had, Fri 6 Jun 2008, 14:17, 71 replies)

The photo
A bit off topic, BUT.

I was dumped, after the only time I ever cheated on a girlfriend: I went home with a random girl in a whole different county, safe in the knowledge that this one off bout of the ol' in-out would go undiscovered.

What were the chances of rolling over and seeing a photograph of my girlfriend on random girl's wall.

Old uni friends. Cracking morning that was.
(whitehorse, Wed 11 Jun 2008, 16:23, 7 replies)

CHCB's guide to breaking up in a civilised manner
1. Meet somewhere neutral but relatively private. Public spaces mean you can't raise your voices without making a scene, so avoid those if there's likely to be more drama than an episode of Bergerac. Choose somewhere where emotions can be expressed without interruption from the public or interference from the police. Try a secluded corner of the park, or a deserted beach. Avoid libraries, the pub at closing time, or the knife aisle of TK Maxx.

2. Begin with a sensitive opening gambit, e.g. "I'm not happy at the moment, I don't think things are working between us". Look and act sensitive too. It is not appropriate to cackle.

3. Give reasons or something to allay their curiousity, e.g. "we fight all the time" or "we haven't had sex in 6 months" or "I HATE THE WAY YOU BREATHE". Keep it appropriately kind, though.

4. Make it about you, not them. Good examples of this include: "I find it difficult..." or "it upsets me when...". Bad examples of this include: "you are evil like all the others before you and I won't let you steal my soul, dammit!".

5. Don't say "I hope we can still be friends" unless a) you actually mean it, and b) they aren't trying to impale themselves on the nearest fence post out of grief. If you only want to be friends because it'll make you feel less like a dick then don't do it.

6. Cry. Nothing wrong with crying.

7. Arrange to collect belongings civilly or else write them off as a loss. Close any joint bank accounts if you're worried about revenge.

8. DO NOT TALK TO EACH OTHER AT ALL FOR AT LEAST ONE WEEK, possibly longer. No contact at all.

9. Ex-sex is perfectly permissible. It's almost compulsory, isn't it? Just leave it 'til you're further down the line and remember that the other party may be investing very different emotions into the resulting hot, frenetic nekkidness.

10. If someone new appears on the scene, for either party, it's fine to obsess over them, call them all the names of the day, diss them hugely and rant about them being a rebound thing. Just don't let your ex-partner hear you. It gets easier, and once the rebound thing has passed, you will give less of a shit about who they're with.

Good luck.

Addendum: face-to-face is the decent way of breaking up. Via text and email is po-mo and ridiculous. Via Facebook is just plain cruel.

This was another Pubic Service Announcement brought to you by the New Friggin' Messiah
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 5 Jun 2008, 12:41, 19 replies)

toff popic
Bertmonkeysex *tip's hat* reminded me of this.

It’s a bit toff popic but here we go...
When I was a young blade, as much as I was a cheeky wee chap I was often none too clever at approaching girls. Unfortunately my best attempt at signalling my amorous intent was to stare at the object of my desire with the sort of thousand-yard stare psychiatric nurses dread. (I have since realised women don’t like this very much). So there we are down the favourite club, with my best mate, drinking beer and scanning the electric savannah – looking for the weak the young and the vulnerable.

And then I saw her.
Slender, beautiful, short blonde hair, high cheekbones flawless skin and perfect, perky little breasts bobbing around under a loose fitting shiny halter-top affair (late eighties). She also had the FINEST ASS I HAVE EVER SEEN. By now my eyes were swirling like that bloody snake in jungle book as she danced and laughed with her friends (mere fuzzy blobs in my peripheral vision). Smitten is not the word. The psychotic Bush Baby stare must have worked that night as lo and behold, the beautiful slender creature popped up beside me as if from nowhere (the shopkeeper in Mr Ben never looked anywhere near as good). With a lascivious look and sparkling blue eyes she chirped,
“So do you NEVER ask a girl to dance?”

Boing!
After an evening of snogging, groping, dancing, drinking then repeat, all too soon it was time to leave the club. By this time my confidence was growing as quickly as my pants seemed to be shrinking. I suggested her place; some coyish ‘no I can’t – really I can’t’ protests were quickly swept aside with my new found rakish charm. So we bundle out of a cab still a-gropin an' a-snoggin. Giggling as we get to her front door.

"SHHHH!" She tells me.

Oh, righto! I think, flatmate(s) asleep probably. The house is quiet and in darkness. We head straight to the bedroom, have a long deep kiss (I can make out little in the gloom) then she pops the bedside lamp on.

Fuck. Me.
Walls plastered with pictures of ponies, (apparently horse riding was responsible for the great ass) pictures of boy bands unknown, more ponies, but the clincher – a single bed covered in teddies, pandas, fluffy fucking camels you name it.

"Erm. How old did you say you were?"

“17” she assures me, pawing at my jeans.

At this time I was only 18 or 19 myself so thought, fair enough. It is only now with the benefit of years I regret not asking her to pop the school uniform on that was undoubtedly still in the wardrobe. So we go at it with the vigour gifted only to the young. Then sleep. Very early in the morning we wake and enjoy another blissful shag in a bed too small for two. Breathless, tired and still fuzzy from the previous night’s excesses I start to drift off. Suddenly I was awoken with a deep dig in the ribs.
“Quick! Hide! Get under the duvet" she hissed.
Before I could even ask I hear the bedroom door opening. A voice deeper than Bluto with laryngitis boomed,

“Mornin'! I’m going for the papers and some rolls, you want anything?”

FUCK. FUCK. FUCK! Where are my clothes? Can he see my shoes lying on the floor? Does he have a gun? Then as if it could get no worse comes the fateful line…

“Who’s that?”

So there I am cowering under the duvet, in a single bed with some 17 - year olds father enquiring whom I might be. Cool as a frozen cucumber my hot, naked little minx replied,

“Tracy”

“Morning Tracy, you want anything from the shops love?”

(I may have let out a small whimper at this point)

“She’s still asleep Dad – hammered last night."

“Fair enough” and with that Glasgow’s answer to Barry White lumbered off.
Once I got my heart rate back down to mere humming bird levels, frantically I start looking for my clothes.

“What’s the rush – he’ll be at least half an hour?”

She was up for it again! I wish I could tell you my dear B3tards that I was cool and suave enough to attempt another but I think I was dressed and on the street within 60 seconds.

!
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Tue 10 Jun 2008, 14:43, 11 replies)

She made me a cake.


Mind you, it tasted like shit.
(sorry., Thu 5 Jun 2008, 23:02, 9 replies)

Not what it said on the tin...
A couple of years ago (just after the Mad Saffa but before the current Mrs. Devil), I was desperately seeking... Well... Anything, really. All I really wanted was someone to curl up with, but failing that I’d have settled for a good old fashioned shag.

Now, I’ve never been very good at walking up to girls in bars or clubs, I don’t have any ‘lines’ or ‘moves’, so the likelihood of me ever meeting anyone was (at least it seemed so at the time) diminishing rapidly. I just knew that I’d end up old and alone. With cats.

One of the guys that I worked with, it turned out, was a Salsa instructor. He suggested that I go down to one of his classes with him – I could meet women and not have to go through the pain of stilted introductions! Bonus! Never one to pass up an opportunity to look like an octopus coming to terms with the hokey-cokey, I signed up.

The lessons were good. I found that I was actually half way decent at it, and welcomed the fact that after the class had finished, the girls came and asked me to dance (I was one of the only guys who didn’t grope them in the close holds... Hey, this is Croydon after all)! Things were going swimmingly.

And then, a new barmaid started working in the bar. She was short, about 5’ 1”, thin, and looked a bit like a pixie. That’s OK with me, I like the Elvin look. There’s a touch of the Kylie Minogue about her. Having found my new confidence, I start talking to her. When I go to the bar I make sure I get served by her, and it gets to the point that she actually starts fighting off other barmaids to serve me. We carried on in this little routine for a few weeks. One night, while handing me my change in the little tray, she grabbed my hand, leaned over the bar, and kissed me.

Well. That’s a first!

We organise to go out the following Monday evening.

As the day came around, I put on a crisp new shirt, had a shave, and made sure all the important bits were washed and ready for action. On with the lucky boxer shorts, a splash of scent, a brush through the hair and I was good to go. Meeting her at Covent Garden tube station, my dream began to become a little frayed at the edges.

Out from behind the bar, she had changed. She was very thin, and had ‘made an effort’. She wore a silver silk dress, a purple wooly cardigan, and a beret. Not a problem, I can live with strange dress sense, in fact, it’s quirky. I like it.

We go for drinks, and within seconds her hand is snaking its way inside my trousers. To cut a long story short, we went back to my place. Falling in to my room, we began to frantically undress each other. At her request, the lights went out. I have my arms around her, and notice that I can feel her bones moving beneath her skin – she really is very very thin. I began to worry that I might break her. I unclasped her bra and, while still kissing her, dropped it to the floor.

THADUMP!

Hang on. A lacy bra shouldn’t make that sort of noise. Hands move from a tiny waist, up a flat stomach, up to... Nothing. Not even two peas on an ironing board. I have no problem with small boobs or flat chests - I’m a legs and bum man but I HATE CHICKEN FILLET BRAS! (Ladies, you are all beautiful. Big boobs or small boobs. Long legs or short legs. Flat belly or pot belly. Just don’t lie! Be proud of what you’ve got! I am not Gok Wan.)

No problem. She’s very enthusiastic, so let’s carry on. I remember myself just in time and tell her that I’m really, really not looking for a relationship. She agrees. We hop on the good foot and do the bad thing.

Thus follows a day of 25 text messages, 14 ‘phone calls all telling me that she knew I didn’t want a relationship, but she thought we could work well together. I reaffirmed my point – it was fun hanging out with her, but I wasn’t ready to be in a relationship yet.

The next salsa lesson came around. I’d made a group of friends there, and was dancing with one of the girls. The barmaid came storming over, tore us apart, slapped the girl I was dancing with, slapped me, shouted “HOW DARE YOU? I thought we were SPECIAL!” and ran out.

I didn’t see her again that night. I arrived home to a text message saying “I can’t blieve ud do that in front of evry1. Mayb we shud leave it. C u l8r.”

So I was dumped when I didn’t even know I was in a relationship, and by text speak too.
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Tue 10 Jun 2008, 11:39, 6 replies)

this QOTW reminds me of the ex-secretary at ex-work on the phone
[names have been changed to protect me]

'hey, matthew, it's me, lisa. i just wanted to say hi and to tell you how nice it was to meet you last night. i really enjoyed talking to you, especially after everything i've been through recently, you know it's so nice to meet a genuinely, really nice guy for a change. you know, you're a really good listener and i felt so much better for being able to get everything off my chest to you. i'm sorry i couldn't offer you coffee when you came back to mine because the milk had gone off, but first thing this morning, i went out and got a 2 litre bottle, so there'll be plenty the next time you come round. and, look, i'm also sorry if, you know, you got the wrong idea when you came back to mine. i'm just not that kind of girl, it takes someone special for me to be able to ... get close to someone, to open up, you know, because of the way i've been hurt in the past. but something tells me there's something special about you and i know you'll want to wait until the time is right. look, sorry, i've got to go, some bitch wants me to post something somewhere. give me a call when you get this message. bye. it's lisa, by the way, from last night. bye.'

'hey matthew, it's me, lisa. hi, look, sorry about the long rambling message last time, it's just that, i dunno, i guess i just feel like i can really open up to you. anyway, i'm in the mood for cooking tonight and you said last night that you like italian. or was it thai? well, anyway, why don't you come round tonight after work and i'll cook you a nice meal. my parents are out till about 10 or so at least, but, don't worry, i'm sure you'll get on fine, i know they'll really like you. don't worry, you can sleep on the sofa, they're totally cool. you can come round anywhere between 7 and 7.30. oh, shit, look i've got to go, it's that bitch again. ah, i'm really looking forward to seeing you. don't be late! bye. give me a call when you get this message. bye.'

'hey matthew, it's me lisa. hi, i was just wondering how you spell your name. i've got it in my phone with two Ts but then I remembered this guy came into work once, and i spelt his name with two Ts, and he was all like, 'yuh, actually, it's one T' and gave me a really dirty look. so i just thought i'd ask. one T? i mean, that's stupid, i mean, isn't that just spelling it wrong? oh, shit, look, if you spell yours with one T, then I'm reeally sorry. oh man, i'm always fucking up like this. shit! oh, emma! emma! get emma for me, will you? she's gone out the door. EMMA!! emma, are you going to maccy D's? oh great, get me a big mac, large fries, large coke, apple pie, and chocolate and banana milkshake, and don't take any shit if they say they can't mix the shake, i saw them do it yesterday for some tart with her tits hanging out. look, i don't have the money right now, i'll give it to you later, cheers. hurry up, i'm starving! hi, matthew? sorry about that. what was i saying? bollocks, i can't remember. anyway, i'd better go, but give me a call when you get this message. lots of l- shit sorry, i mean, bye, see you later. bye.'

'hi matthew, i know you said to call you matt, but i don't know, i prefer matthew. anyway, look, i hope you didn't get the wrong end of the stick earlier when i said, well it might have sounded like i said something that i didn't actually say, i'm probably saying this for nothing, but i just didn't want you to think that i'm some kind of nutter. i mean, my friends say i'm mad, but, you know, not in a bad way. anyway, give me a call as soon as you can because my mum said she'd get the shopping for dinner tonight i just wanted to double check whether you wanted thai or italian, or was it chinese? well, i don't like chinese, so it'll have to be thai or italian. anyway, she's leaving in 10 minutes, so give me a call. got to go, bye.'

'hi, matthew? it's lisa. can you give me a call please? bye.'

'matthew, it's lisa. call me, i need to speak to you immediately. bye.'

'matthew? it's lisa. i don't know why you didn't return any of my messages yesterday. i think that's basically really rude and immature. and don't bother trying to tell me that your battery's died because i have delivery reports set up on my mobile and i got one for the text i sent you yesterday so i know your phone's been on. if you don't want to talk to me then you could at least be man enough to tell me to my own face, because that's what adults do. i've gone to a lot of trouble for you. my mother went out to get the shopping, even though she only recovered from her hip operation last week and i waited all night, dinner was ruined by the way, but don't bother calling because i'm tired and i just don't need this now. i'll speak to you later. i hope you're feeling happy with yourself. goodbye.'

'matthew. it's over. i never want to see or speak to you again. i can't believe how wrong i was about you. i can't believe i opened up to you, let you get close. as it turns out, you're just like all the rest, you pretend you care but you don't. are you happy now? kicking a girl when she's down? well, i'm too good for you, i deserve better than this. i don't ever want to speak to you again. goodbye. it's lisa, by the way.'

one time, a guy actually did call her back and managed to screw her for tens of hundreds of pounds. i think there's lessons for us all.
(threadkiller, Mon 9 Jun 2008, 23:57, 11 replies)

Aime
I decided to leave her after, well, after, cough, you know, that type of sex. As I withered in her, and wondered how long the perfunctory kissing on the back of the neck would have to go on for, I found a profound sense of boredom. It wasn't with the way her body lay on the sheets, or the way the sunshine shuffled uneasy through the blinds and cowered from the corners, it was just the sense that I could see my future mapped out - islands of intimacy, and shopping and drugs and her friends in a sea of grey glooply despair. I didn't know what I wanted to do - still don't - I just knew I didn't want this. I hated the way her hair fell on her face and I hated the way she put her legs over mine as we slept. Like she owned me, or wanted me to own her.

I lay there for a while, going "mmm", wondering if it was too early for the vodka in the freezer. It was either always too early, or never early enough. She rolled over and held me and I could see the sun on her perfect face and the two red rosy spots high on either of her cheeks. There was a layer of sweat on her forehead so I stroked it with my hands. I could wash them later much easier than the floral pillow cases which she had bought at Monoprix before Christmas. She sat up and lit a cigarette. I watched the smoke spiral up to the ceiling, as if it couldn't bear to be inside her, either. I was frozen. I knew she'd get up and dress herself after the cigarette. I hated the way she dressed so casually, so matter of factly in front of me. The callous intimacy. I couldn't bear to watch it. She'd just stand up and pull her bra on and then bend down and pull her pink knickers on and then put her jumper and jeans on. She was taking something for granted which I hadn't realised I'd given.

The plans I devised grew more outlandish, and for a while I was seriously, seriously contemplating faking my own death. In the end, I decided to start off more gently - whispering another girl's name in my faked sleep and then going "ooh yeah". I did this for a few nights, but she slept on regardless, doubtless cos of the cheap French red wine and the expensive Moroccan hash. Once this failed, I decided to hire an actress. I'd get a drama student or something and while *** was out, I'd get the actress round and pretend, somehow, to be in love with me when *** came back. I didn't know how much an actress cost, so to be on the safe side, I started stealing money from her. When I pissed all that up the wall, I decided to tip off the drug police that she was a drug dealer. All the while this was going on, she'd drape herself around me, or tell me she loved me, or kiss me, and every time skin touched skin, I felt the infinity between the intimacies.

One day we were sitting with friends around the big table in the flat. We'd had crusty bread and ham and cheese and an ice cold white wine and I could smell the fresh coffee percolating, and I just looked at her and said "Do you know what? I fucking hate you". She made a sound that sounded a bit like the coffee machine. A sort of hot spluttering. Well, that was the end of that. I ended up crying myself to sleep in my empty bed for a month or so afterwards.

What a cunt. Fuck it.
(sirolimus, Fri 6 Jun 2008, 16:39, 10 replies)

That's when it SHOULD have been over...
... if she had any sense.

A while ago now, I was on-again-off-again involved with my trainee, a pretty gorgeous girl and all round glorious and special individual whom I was lucky to have in my life at all.

Unfortunately I have a terrible snoring disorder. So we were lying on the bed one night and I was half asleep. She was pretty much dressed as it was about 4am and she was trying to be bothered to get up and go home. Suddenly I felt the goodness brewing and I let rip with the most god almighty fart known to man. This did not amuse her. The smell was fantastic and, best of all, it was such an outstanding fart that I had woken myself up. Always a good sign.

Shaking my head and looking around the room for praise, I jumped off the bed and sauntered into the bathroom. I was still snoozy and rested my head against the toilet roll for a quick drowse. Nice.

But after a while I realised that noise from the bedroom was still occurring. Peeling open my eyes, I realised that she was still running around the room. With. Next. To. No. Consideration. For. My. Head. A leopard with curry up its ass couldn't have moved that quickly. She was getting dressed. The stupid bitch had thrown the duvet on to the floor. It was all over. And I don't just mean all over the floor.

Or was it? She was still there. Eventually, as the noise from the bedroom increased in crescendo, she turned the light on. And just stood there, staring at the bed, looking at it. Jesus. Had she been facing the other way, the annoying bitch would have been staring at ME!

She turned the light off, ran out, jumped in her car and fled home. I was happy that the bed was all mine again and, leaving the toilet unflushed and my arse unwiped, strolled happily back into bed, jumped back on it, stretched out, rolled luxuriously all over the sheets and....

what??


No apologies for length, she fucking loved it.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Thu 5 Jun 2008, 14:10, 15 replies)

The Ginger
I wasn't deliberately trying to get dumped, but I should have been.

I was on the rebound when I met Ruth, I was drunk and the pub was dark, she reminded me of my ex, the person I considered at the time to be the love of my life.
So, a date was arranged (hooray!), I put on my finest clothes and went to meet her at a restaurant out of town. But, on seeing her I realised that actually there was very little about her that was like the ex, Ruth was tall and so thin she made Birch saplings look positively overweight, her hair was a dark, scary ginger, not the nice friendly, strawberry-blonde that I was used to. I'm not the greatest catch in the world myself, so I wasn't going to judge based purely on looks, besides, she did have some attractive qualities.

The date was great, the food was good, I thought we made a pretty good connection, there was lots of face eating and over-the-clothes rubbing going on in the car park afterwards.

All was going well, except that the next day she text me to let me know that she thought I was 'mega fit'. Anybody who knows me knows that this simply isn't true, I'm passable at best, but what really worried me was her use of the word 'mega'.
It didn't matter too much though, and a second date was to be arranged, this time I was going to pick her up from her Mother's house.

I arrived at the rather nice house, which was hidden away at the back of a remote cul-de-sac, in a village that can only be described as Royston Vasey with it's own Spar.
Her Mum answered the door, and with each passing second I had the strange, suffocating feeling that I had somehow been sucked into the film Carrie.
Her Mum was creepy, and very off with me, I felt for poor Ruth, her father had passed away when she was little, and the house didn't seem like a very homely environment.

Ruth came down the stairs, and led me back up to her room, I entered... it was a shrine to Westlife.
Every wall was plastered with posters, there were photos stuck to mirrors of Ruth with her arms around each and every member, as they smiled awkwardly and appeared to be doing their best to back away. Feeling freaked out and slightly overwhelmed (she was 21, this isn't really normal for a girl her age), I sat on the bed as she reeled off great long stories about how she would follow her favourite boy group across the country, attend every gig, intercept them backstage and try to chat them up, oh and wasn't Kian dreamy? -and that bitch he was shagging from Hollyoaks was a right minger.
I was starting to get scared, really, really escared.

We went out on our second date, this time to the cinema, we saw The Village, and even though it was crap, it was nothing compared to what was to happen later.
We went back to my place, things were getting frisky, there was alot of fumbling with clothes, snogging and groping, and then the clothes came off.
I insist that I am not a shallow person, her flat chest hardly bothered me at all, the inch long nipples however... and the thick, fluffy white hair that covered her tummy, these things freaked me out slightly, but stranger things were still to come.
Peeling off her panties, I saw... nothing. She appeared to have no genitalia at all, there were no pubic hairs, just nothing.
Not wanting to upset her by stopping or letting her know how freaked out I was, I continued, and after some feeling around, I found an opening. She lay there rigid, as I probed and licked, trying my very best to get any kind of a rise out of her. I teased those inch long nipples with my tongue, stroked her body all over, played with the area where on most girls the clitoris should be, but still nothing.
The sex itself was awkward, but thankfully brief.

My birthday was coming up, so our next date was to be a joint celebration; my friend and I have birthdays around the same time, and another friend had just got engaged, so we clubbed together to hire a village hall and threw a big bash.

The party itself fell on my birthday, all of my friends were there, and many people had come in fancy dress. A good time was had by all, and at the end of the evening, I took Ruth home with me again.

So ladies and gentlemen, if you've been able to bear with me this long, you're still waiting for the point of this story, just how did I get her to dump me...?

Well when we got back to my place, we climbed into bed, and I started to put the moves on her again, hoping that this time, it might be better.

'I can't tonight,' she said, 'it's my time of the month.'

'Can't I at least have a blowjob then?' I asked, earnestly.

'No, I don't really like doing that,' she replied.

'Oh go on,' I persisted, 'it is my birthday.'

'Yes, but it's also Hallowe'en, and you're dressed like Tina Turner,' was her response.

I slept like a log in a beehive wig and mini-skirt that night, and Ruth left the following morning, I never heard from her again.

Yay!
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Tue 10 Jun 2008, 10:33, 101 replies)

Mute nympho.
About a year and a half ago I went out with Jo. She seemed nice enough, little bit quiet (practically a mute) but still nice. We got talking on MSN and she soon revealed herself to be filthier than a French Binman.
I gave her my number and we started seeing each other, pretty much every night I was getting the filthiest of texts.

Having an attractive, nymphomaniac girlfriend is ideal right? Not as such.
It's like a threesome, in theory it's a glorious idea. In practice, it's tiring and sticky.

Jo could barely contain herself, I was being woken up at three in morning - college days, with her telling me how wet she was and the various filthy things she wanted to do to me.
(To be fair, she never repeated herself on what she wanted to do - such imagination.)

Naturally I kept texting her back - ladyfriends are rare for me.
But it was taking it's toll.
I was spending loads on keeping my credit topped up, she lived far away so getting her round and back was awkward (I was a student, my mum had to drive us).
The physical exertion as well, jeeesus.
She'd come round for the night and it would be 6 hours straight of action. No rest breaks, no 'lets just cuddle'. Non. Stop. Fumbling.

Eventually I realised I wasn't really into her - well, I was into her (repeatedly), but not *into* her - so I spoke to her about it.

We stayed together for a few more weeks.

I hatched a plan. You see, I always satisfied her, despite her insatiable appetite.

ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION TO THE RESCUE!

She was coming around one weekend, so I spent the week prior, furiously wanking at any opportunity. My plan was to tire myself so much, that I wouldn't be able to perform.
And, y'know, what use is a broken boyfriend (her words*) to the sexual equivalent of the energiser bunny?

By the end of the week 'red raw' didn't cover it. The preacher was well and truly punished. The purple helmeted warrior had fallen in combat. The poor euphemism was fully wanked out.

She came round and then spent an uncomfortable evening being poked by what could only be described as "the worlds smallest cumberland sausage" (her friend's words).

3 days later she told me it wasn't working out.
5 days later she got drunk and (reportedly) shagged 5 different people at a party.

Take lesson from this, if your soon-to-be-ex-ladyfriend has an insatiable lust that's doing you no good - wank yourself stupid.



*One of the few times she properly spoke to me.

Length, like a small cumberland sausage apparently.
(Good Looking Deity Grew a magnificent beard on, Tue 10 Jun 2008, 12:52, 15 replies)

Breaking up is hard to do...
I was sitting there, in my pyjamas. These weren’t any ordinary pyjamas, no – these were super-straight, grey and flannel. They were about as unsexy as pyjamas can get. The covers of the bed were pulled up to my chin, the only concession I had made was to have my arms free to so I would be able to read. I snatched a quick glance up as I heard the rooms door open, and saw her enter. Her hair was straight and black in the dim light, her body still glistening slightly with moisture from the shower she had just taken. The towel she wore around her waist, leaving her bare breasts exposed, fell to the floor, revealing her to be resplendent in her nakedness. Looking down, I noticed that she was wearing high, black shoes – knowing, as she did, that I really, really, liked that – and watched as she made her way over to the bed,

She placed a knee on the mattress and, balancing herself with a hand on the pillow, raised her other leg and drew it across me. She straddled me there, looking deep in to my eyes, playing with her hair and letting her hands flow across the swell of her breast and down towards that special haven that nestled between her lean, long legs.

“So,” she breathed, “here I am. How do you want me?”

If anything, I pulled the covers even higher. Impossibly, I had been trying to escape the clutches of this relationship for well over four months. It had been my first ever ‘proper’ relationship, my first ever foray in to the strange landscape that I knew as ‘Love’. The sex was intense, the passion deep, the friendship solid. But.

But.

She was mad. Madder than a ferret in a trouser factory. In the space of six months, I had been beaten up (and could never bring myself to retaliate or restrain – you just don’t do that to women), accused of serial misdemeanours involving people I’d never even met, been told I was to be a father on no less than four occasions (each of which miscarried after a day or two), been told that I’d never get anyone better than her, been told that I’d never make it through my college course let alone make it to University, been followed by her and her Dad and been physically thrown out of a pub because she told the landlord that I was bothering her and she’d never met me before. She found this funny.

I could not dump her myself, not if I wanted to live. This was one of those situations where you have to convince the other person that the dumping is their idea, and their idea only. And so I found myself taking her to work with me and have her sit at the bar while I did what barmen do best – flirt with barmaids and patrons. She came to a play I was in where I had to kiss another girl. I started becoming distant, disappearing to make phone calls to ‘no-one’. All of which lead me to being sat in a bed, the covers pulled up to my chin, being straddled by a girl in nothing but high-heeled black shoes.

She looked deep in to me, in to my soul. And she said “this isn’t working, is it?”

I took a deep breath. Even then, I didn’t do so well with confrontation. “No,” I said “it isn’t.”

I then had the most bizarre break up ever. She sat in front of me, stark naked, and we talked out our relationship. I was finally honest about why I thought it wasn’t working, and was honest about my behaviour. The strange thing was that she understood – she had, in her own way, been trying to show me that she cared for me and wanted to be happy with me, and sometimes took it too far.

The talk turned deeper and deeper and deeper, and we ended up in each other’s arms, crying like small children.

This was the only time that I ever proceeded to have break up sex. Which, given the circumstances, was the most intimate, honest moment we ever shared with each other. We’re still friends now. She’s a child psychologist, yet whenever I see her I can’t help but remember the high heeled black shoes...
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Thu 5 Jun 2008, 13:33, 8 replies)

Just say no to the dumper - confuses the hell out of them...
The time I have done it to someone was during a row with my then fiancee. She had gotten a bit drunk, seen an innocent conversation with a friend as an attempt to pull someone else, then gone mental. I was rather stoned and when she said "that's it! It's all over - I hate you and never want to see you again", I replied with "No it's not. It's not over, because there's no need for you to be in this state. You've got the wrong end of the stick and you don't want to ruin things and kick yourself when you're seeing things clearly."

She huffed off and passed out on the bed. We got married in December. It's a really useful tool to keep a realtionship alive, because if you say it calmly and reasonably, there's not any really easy comeback that can be flung in the heat of a screaming tantrum - the only thing I can think of that might be as successful at derailing a dumping (which are usually brought about by a girl getting her knickers in a twist and then asking her female friends about how men think - like they know) would be to randomly quote facts:

"I hate you, you don't do anything for me and my friends say I'm crazy to be with you"

"If you take the atomic weight of a molecule and measure out that number of grams of the substance, there will be 1x10^23 Molecules of the substance in it"

"Huh? But anyway, as I was saying - I don't think it's working out..."

"Carrots should really be blue."

"For a while now I've... hang on, BLUE?!"

"Yeah, it's down to the pigments in the carrot, but the most common one reflects blue/green light, so they should appear blue".

Give it a try - after all, at that point it's got to be worth a punt!

Oh, by the way ladies, your female friends don't understand men. Men maybe understand men, women possibly understand women. You credit us with far too much depth of emotion - your female friends will tell you that your chap has done something out of malice, or a convulted plot to damage your self esteem or to derail your plans for the wedding you started planning two weeks after you met him. It's all bollocks.

The truth is, he is genuinely unaware of half the crap you think he's done on purpose and only vaguely aware of the ramification of things he's tried to do for you. Any man who tells you he understands exactly how you feel is either a) Gay or, b) a Liar. We don't understand you - how can we, when you can bleed for a week each month and not die - we cut our finger and want a bandage and a trip to A&E. We love you dearly, but we don't understand you. In the same way, don't attribute female thought processes to a species that will still laugh at it's own flatulence if left in same-sex company and, it has to be said, even go so far as to call other members of the species into the room to witness a particularly fine bouquet... We're nowhere near as complex as you give us credit. After all, when was the last time you saw a man run out of a room crying, floowed by a woman shouting "What? What have I done now?", with a confused look on their face. Reverse the genders and you've got pretty much every couple on the planet at least once... Vive la Difference!
(Chad, Mon 9 Jun 2008, 16:27, 14 replies)

Abject failure
"You know that girl I've been seeing?"

"Yeah, what about her?"

"God she's a bit of a dog. An' I didn't realise what a complete bunny-boiler she is too. And Ker-ist, don't get me started on her family."

And so, I went round all my friends, family and colleagues, in the hope that she might get the message and leave me alone.

We've been married for seventeen years now, and we agreed never speak of this thing, ever again. Except in every single argument we have, obviously.

Sorry, love. No, really.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 5 Jun 2008, 11:23, Reply)

Accept my contrition at slight off-topicness; I beg your indulgence.
I was the perfect girlfriend.

It required the suppression of so much of the natural vileness of my personality, but for a whole year, I was. I was in love. I was patient and kind, and I gave him space to do whatever he wanted. I wouldn't get huffy if he went around without me, or forgot to call. I even agreed not to see him at all for several weeks while he took his exams, so as not to prove a distraction, though I let him know I'd always be there if he needed me. It was a really difficult thing to do. We lived very near each other, I had exams too and I was stressed out and a bit lonely. I missed him terribly, but I was really careful not to let him know how much. I didn't want to put any more pressure on him. For nearly a month, I counted the days until he finished his exams and we could be together properly again. I planned it all out. The day before, suprisingly, he called and asked if I had time for lunch.

You can guess what comes next.

He had tried, he said, to 'let me down gently' by not spending any time with me or texting or calling over the last month. Seems that, naive creature that I am, I had actually thought he wanted time to work. I remember exactly how I felt sitting on the bench looking out over the river; men say nothing hurts worse than being kicked in the balls, and we can't possibly understand. I disagree. The light-headed rush of sickness, the adrenalin surge, and then that crunch of pain spreading out like a gathering wave until your hearing goes funny.

But I didn't want to burden him with all that. I kept it light. I said I hoped we could still be friends, being as we were in the same friendship group anyway. I think we actually shook hands. I don't remember the walk home, but I remember lying on my bed a few hours later, just staring at the ceiling, unable to take it in.

I had thought that was as bad as it could get. But over the next few days and weeks, more and more information started to filter back to me; more and more idiosyncratic little pieces of odd stuff that had happened in our relationship started to add up. Then it emerged. He had dumped me in order to get back with his ex, girl who had made his life an utter misery, and I - who unless you patient readers haven't cottoned on yet, was helplessly in love with him - was just an extended rebound fling. A shameful sort of affair, to be looked back on with embarrassment. Of course, he didn't admit as such. He denied it, but the game was up when she (in a gesture born of complete spite, since I never met her) emailed me pictures of them kissing taken whilst we were still together. I had to glean all other bits of information from our friends, all the while smiling and chatting and keeping up the pretence of nonchalance. Nobody likes a moaner.

Eventually, though, I cracked and in the gentlest possible way, confronted him. And he lied. He lied so much that I still don't know what to believe, and any good memories of the relationship (and of the friendship we had before that) have been spoiled by the feeling that none of it really has any integrity. He lied until he was found out, and then lied some more for extra lie-ey goodness.

For my part, I couldn't take it. Judging it best to beat a dignified retreat, I packed up my life and left the city I'd loved. I've been back to visit since and the thought of accidentally running into him is a dread strong enough to make me feel physically sick. I took the first job I found and moved to London with complete strangers. For long months I was so short of confidence I couldn't look strangers in the eye. I mistrusted other people around me. I felt embittered and cynical and I hated myself for it. I felt unattractive and old and past it at 24. I felt like ultimately all that mattered to men - even supposedly intellectual and alternative men like my ex - was looks, as the girl he cheated on me with was psychotic, clingy, stupid, immature, and generally a complete knob, but very pretty. I don't know when this will end, but I do know one thing. If he had had the balls to be completely honest with me and admit that he still had feelings for his ex, he would have saved me months of mental torture I wouldn't wish on anybody (except, now, possibly him.) I would have avoided all the self-doubt, suspicion of others, massive hurt and poor life-decisions that resulted from being fibbed to in grand order, all because he was too much of a coward to do the right thing.

I don't know if I'll ever get back to the person I was before, not really. I'd like to. I think I was better then.

Length? It was a year ago today.
(jennymnemonic, Fri 6 Jun 2008, 13:45, 16 replies)

2nd class reptiles
As many of you by now are aware Mrs Spimf and I have a long standing but 'lively' relationship.

Previous posts also mention some herpetological interests see 'Non existent snake attack'

So there we are having a right old ding-dong - Mrs Spimf STORMS OUT leaving me apparently for EVAH!

Not one to fail to have the last frothing bellow at my beloved I followed her grabbing the first thing I could find (a bag of white rats purchased that day to feed the snakes)

"yeAH!!! And fuck you too, and fuck off! etc, etc"

I meant it, this time that was it we were over. Full bastard stop!

I slammed the flimsy polly bag of now fully defrosted rodents on the windscreen of Mrs Spimf's car - she responded by running over my foot.

So I limped back indoors. Amazingly, I was essentially uninjured. I locked the door - she had no keys. As I sat fuming but also instantly pining the loss of "the miserable fucking bitch" I heard a noise at the front door...

phhht! She’s realised the error of her ways - the harridan and is back to grovel. HA!

The sound of half a dozen newly flaccid rats being posted one by one through the letterbox and thudding on to the doormat is a true indication that women truly have the last word.

This year is our 20th together
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Thu 5 Jun 2008, 21:18, 7 replies)

Not
me but a friend from University, who started going out with a German girl. After a while he realised things weren't going well but being scared of her didnt' want to end it himself. So, in a display of amazing drunken logic, he decided the best way to get dumped was to go to her house and piss through the letter box whilst singing Deutschland Uber Alles.

Several problems with this:
1. She was in Germany at the time.
2. He was so drunk he managed to piss all over himself.
3. He got the wrong house.
4. He thought the police were chasing him afterwards and jumped over a wall breaking his wrist.

Idiot.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Thu 5 Jun 2008, 14:59, 1 reply)

wrong number
my sister kept getting phonecalls off someone called clarissa asking for steve. everytime, 'sorry, i think you've got the wrong number' until the girl exploded down the other end of the line and said 'I KNOW YOU'RE HIDING HIM. WHERE IS HE?'

the phonecalls kept going on until she went to our dad who took the next phonecall and said, in his nastiest, dad tone of his voice "please stop ringing my daughter... and im not surprised he's hiding from you.'
(ladyintheradiator, Sat 7 Jun 2008, 1:37, Reply)

In the last few months of a relationship....
...the sparkle had died. She wouldn't take the hint, despite the fact i had practically moved out. So I did the only thing I could think of. Shagged her doggy style, and mid coitus reached under the bed and opened a porn mag which I then gently laid over her back and calmly flicked through while making half arsed love.

This was not appreciated.

The resulting testicular bruising took about three days to diminish. But at last I was single.
( bennyhillslovechild, Thu 5 Jun 2008, 17:29, 5 replies)

If you want to do it right
you need a pair of these:


( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 5 Jun 2008, 16:12, 15 replies)

randy farm hand
As a teenager i decided that I wanted to be a vet 'when i grow up', so to get the necessary experience, I began volunteering at 2 local farms and Riding for the Disabled. It was at the most local farm that i met randy farm hand (rfh/danny).

Every weekend he would follow me round like a lovesick puppy or show me how macho he was by wrestling sheep to the ground. The farmer thought it was hilarious, his wife thought it was adorable, i was just hugely feaked out by it all, being young, naive, and, well, educated (rfh was 2 years older than me, but could barely count to ten, dropped out of school at 15, and wanted to be a full time farm hand for the rest of his life. oh, and i was a total intellectual snob.).

rfh eventually took to asking me out every weekend, and every weekend i'd say no, thank you (hey, i'm well mannered even in a rejection!), and we'd be awkward around eachother until lunch time, then the same thing would happen the following saturday and sunday. ho hum.

i got very fed up with this after a while, especially when it escalated to him asking me every ten minutes or so whilst we were helping a cow with a particularly difficult delivery - i had my hands inside a cow, was sweating like a politician being asked to tell the truth, and was NOT interested in his crap. This was helped by the poor cow mooing and moaning as she tried to push the huge calf out of her back end. Eventually the calf was born, and we had to watch the cow for a couple of hours, as it had been a very bad labour. rfh ket on with his attempts to wear me down, and was annoying me TOO much. so when the placenta was delivered, i picked up the warm wet heavy mass, slopped it over his head, whilst shouting 'NO I DO NOT WANT TO GO OUT WITH YOU!!!'.

he got the message, and joined the navy two days later (i wish i were joking).

apologies for length, it was a difficult birth.
( ascorbate, Thu 5 Jun 2008, 13:49, 4 replies)

A friend
I don't have any relevant personal stories, so I'll tell you all a little tale of a friend of mine.

My friend 'A' was seeing a pleasant little girl for a few months, whom we shall call 'X' if only for the tiresome pun. I was living with 'A' at the time, and also knew 'X' quite well, so I saw her a lot as she came 'round to visit.

Now, 'X' is a bit of a div. She's as ditsy as a Miss Alabama 2008 runner-up smacked up to the eyeballs on helium. She's also completely harmless, so you can't help but think "ahhh, bless" when she says or does something daft.

She once climbed through my bedroom window at 2am (my room was on the bottom floor) because she didn't want to wake anyone up by knocking on the front door. The front door that was always unlocked. The front door she also had a key for.

Anyway, according to my good friend 'A', the relationship was going swimmingly. They'd often be curled up on the sofa in a haze of weed smoke, and I was happy for him. Sadly, it seems she wasn't content.

I remember one morning receiving a text from 'A' saying that he had broken up with 'X'. When I returned home that evening, he told me what happened...

Apparently 'X' had been considering breaking up with 'A' for a while, but was too chicken to, y'know, communicate this. Not only was she too scared, but she'd also forget to break up with him. So, she did what normal people do to remind themselves, she got a pen and wrote "Dump A".

On her hand.

This didn't have the desired effect, she still forgot to have 'the chat'. However, when they were dozing in bed together, her gently curled up, head on his chest, 'A' happened to notice the shopping list of relationship doom on her hand. So, with the grace and patience of a vengeful ninja, he adds the word "Thanks" to her hand, slips out of the bed, and goes for a walk.

She still wants to be friends with him.

Somehow I don't see that happening.
( Labia Majora You keep on talking but it makes no sense at all, Tue 10 Jun 2008, 10:51, 45 replies)

HLT’s guide to How Not To Break Up With Someone (antithesis to CHCB’s earlier post)
1. Say “It’s not me, it’s you”.

2. If you can be bothered to wait a few months between deciding to break up and actually breaking up, buy some flower seeds and plant them in your dumpee’s garden to spell out the following phrase “YOU’RE DUMPED, LOSER, AND YOUR NAUGHTY BITS ARE GENERALLY UNSATISFACTORY”. Begonias or pansies are the best to use for this as to present someone with these means “I hate you and wish unpleasant things to happen to you” in the language of flowers. ensuring that your spellage and grammery is correct before planting in order to avoid picky types picking on you for not being perfick

3. If breaking up at Christmas, make one of those homemade crackers. Instead of putting in a joke, write a little note of hatred for the recipient to find whilst feasting on figgy pudding and being festive.

4. Take out a full-page advert in the national press declaring your love for Eamonn Holmes.

5. Hide in a cupboard in Japan for a year. The embarrassment and publicity when you are found will be enough to make anyone scarper.

6. Buy cushions and embroider them with the component letters of the sentence “I don’t like you any more, goodbye” and scatter them about randomly in the living room. Eventually they will arrange themselves in the right order and your boyfriend/girlfriend will read them and leave.

7. Stop showering and washing your clothes.

8. And finally – gentlemen, don’t say it with flowers, say it with wasps.

That is all.

[edited for the grammar police]
(happylittletulip helpless and delicious, Thu 5 Jun 2008, 13:47, 21 replies)

Putting the 'Crow' in Croquet...
When I was a Devil going through his late teenage years, I wanted money. No, to be honest I wanted both money and a social life, and the opportunity to talk with pretty girls. So I got myself a job at one of Halstead’s premier drinking establishments, and so began 6 years of working bars the length and breadth of the country. Well, Essex and West Yorkshire, but you get the point.

As I’ve mentioned before, I’m rubbish at approaching women in bars or clubs. But put me behind the pumps and I’m like a different person; I’ll flirt along with the best of them. Occasionally – very occasionally – I would end up trading numbers with girls at the bar, and thenceforth nature would take its course.

One such girl was S. Lovely, she was, if a little Essex. You know: the sovereign ring, the bleached hair, the screeching voice of a harridan. We went on a couple of dates and eventually ended up on my bed having a bit of a kiss and some strictly on-top-of-the-clothes-and-don’t-you-even-think-of-heading-down-there fumbling. After a couple of hours she gets up to leave and I, with blue balls, was left to my own devices. At the door, she turned to me and said, through a cloud of Lambert and Butler:

“I love you.”

Well. Bugger me sideways with a spork. Two dates, a bit of fumbling, and she’s in love with me. I’m good. But raise the alarm. Marshal the troops. Get the big thing that goes “DANGER! DANGER” going. We’re in trouble lads. Phone Houston, let them know. You see, although S was fun, I wasn’t really in to her any more. And, in my 18-year-old wisdom, I thought the best way to let her know this was to behave like I didn’t know any better.

It came around to the following Friday evening. I was working the late shift and, at around 1am, I was doing a glass run. I turned from the bar to find a girl behind me who seemed to be using my leg as a sort of stand in scratching pole. And she had a scratch in her special places, judging by the eagnerness with which she was rubbing it against my thigh. I gave in to temptation. I had a little boogie. And, just as my lips locked with this enigmatic beauty, I saw S.

She stood at the end of the bar, wearing a long black coat, black boots, black trousers and a black top. In short, she looked like the fucking Crow. Her hair hung over her face, and she glowered at me. From where I was, I could actually feel the hatred radiating from her. She turned on her heel, and walked out.

In my (admittedly bastardly) mind, I thought “Mission Accomplished!”, and returned to my work. Two hours later, I had cleaned, locked up and was heading home. Stepping out in to the rain of the early morning, I unlocked my car, clambered in, and started sorting out a CD. Turning on the engine, I flicked on the lights and put the car in gear.

WHAM!

“What the fuckity fuck fuck FUCK?” I screamed. Looking to my left I saw a rain-soaked S, winding up to strike the side panel of my car door with the Croquet Mallet from the games lawn (how very middle class, being attacked by a Croquet Mallet?).

“YOU WHAM BASTARD WHAM !”

In my haste to get out of the car, I’d left it in gear. So, as I kangarooed across the car park, I was pursued by a soaking wet, emotionally unstable girl beating seven shades of shit out of the vehicle. I rammed my foot on the clutch, stopped the car, relocated the gear, floored the accelerator and got the hell out of dodge. Looking in my rear-view mirror, I saw her charge in to the street after me, brandishing the mallet and screaming like a banshee.

(Time for the Moral of The Story. The girl I had kissed on that night was, as it turned out, married. Word got back to her husband of our little kiss, and he paid me a visit a week later. I did escape being put through a leaded window, but did not escape a damned good pasting. I probably got what I deserved though.)
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Wed 11 Jun 2008, 15:43, 9 replies)

Mate of mine started dating a Russian girl
Her second language was English, but she spoke it perfectly.

He didn't want to go out with her anymore, so started making up English words, and then getting annoyed that his girlfriend didn't understand them.

"Darling, do you lancely going up to somechuck and throwing some lopberries around?"
".. What?"
"I said if you wanted to go to the pub"

After a week of that, she dumped him.
(__, Thu 5 Jun 2008, 16:22, 1 reply)

Hiss
The best way to dump someone is to say it with flowers.

Send them a Triffid.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Thu 5 Jun 2008, 15:39, 4 replies)

London, you're dumped.
London, it is so over between us. You used to be exotic and alluring, with the bright lights, clubs and concerts. Then I got to know you a bit better, and realised that it wasn't always this good. Since then, our relationship has been going downhill; I'm struggling to remember the good times, and only seem able to focus on the crime, local chav community, awful pollution and traffic, and sheer expense of being with you.

My house has been broken into, my computer stolen, my friends attacked, my bank account raped and my health damaged.

I'll probably regret what I'm doing a bit, and miss you at first, but I'm utterly convinced that in the long run, this is the right course to take.

I'm sorry to put you through this, but you'll be alright. You'll cope without me; you always have. Some new girl will come along with the joy of moving to the big city in her eyes, and you'll have good times with her instead of me. Honestly, I don't mind.

I think I've always known that things were a bit wrong, but this feeling of discontent has been growing within me for quite a long time. I think it all came to a head this week, when some spotty little oik tried to steal my bike from Victoria Station (and do Network Rail give a toss? Do they my arse), I developed a heinous mouth/throat infection due to cycling in traffic fumes every day, and I saw the crazy Kennington man this afternoon, sitting outside of the cafe with his cock hanging out.

To be honest though, these are all small things. Insignificant compared to the most important reason we can't be together any more. Some mouth-breathing insanity-mongers elected Boris Johnson as Mayor. I can't live with people who think like that. Really I can't.

London, as of now, I am looking for somewhere new to live. We'll see each other again, I have no doubt. But just as friends, for gigs and museums and stuff (you always did get amazing line-ups at gigs). But as we are now, we're finished.

Goodbye.
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Wed 11 Jun 2008, 17:42, 32 replies)

I have always been the dumpee....
.. not the dumper. But I think I can take a hint. After all, I took the following hints.

1. Was seeing a girl at college, came round one night, she'd moved. No forwarding address left.

2. Was seeing a girl at 6th form college. We went away on holiday with a group of friends. She pulled a bloke in the local pub and spent all night snogging him, I spent all night sobbing into my beer.

3. Went round to my nurse girlfriend's flat in the nurses accomodation, she answered the door in her dressing gown, looking shifty. A male nurse appeared behind her, completely naked, kissed her on the neck and asked her to come back to bed for 'some more'. He then smiled at me and walked off.

I'd like to point out that contrary to my usual fabrications, this post is completely true. I had a difficult time in love for the first few years.
(Vic Flange, Tue 10 Jun 2008, 16:40, 7 replies)

I'm about to bare my soul to you all, be grateful!
This QOTW isn't the best one for me, as generally I'm the dumpee, not the dump-er.

You see, I'm one of those clingy, needy, fairly possessive guys that women hate. I like to hold my girlfriend's hand when I'm out in public, I make other people sick by stroking her hair, kissing her softly and making her sit on my knee, no matter where we are, and I LOVE cuddles, snuggling under duvets, and spooning. I proper love the spooning.
It'd be pretty fair to say that, despite my unusually high sex drive, I would rather hold my Mrs for hours than fuck her like the Kursk (deep and full of seamen).

So, many years ago I was naive enough to have married completely the wrong girl, and have a baby with her. I was my typical, affectionate, clingy self, while she appeared to have changed almost instantly, the second we'd got married.
I don't know if it was because she'd realised that she'd made a mistake, or if she'd simply gone off me, or even if I'd just been used to get her knocked up, but looking back now I can see she had been deliberately trying to get rid of me.

Two years of loveless, sexless (this is kind of important in any relationship, let alone to a guy of 20 years old), argument-filled, derogatory comment packed, working 60 hour weeks, doing all of the housework because 'cleaning products affect her eczema', doing all the actual work with the baby, including all of the getting up in the night, making bottles, feeding, changing nappies (all the stuff any parent would do, but for some reason she didn't), and staying in every weekend while she pissed what little I was earning up the wall on shopping and getting pissed with her mates followed.
But none of that worked, I'm a decent guy, I stuck by her, I thought I still loved her, and there was no way I would leave my little baby girl and become a weekend Dad.

So she stepped up her game. By sleeping with my older brother.

Not much has changed since then, she's still a lazy, sponging, feckless cow, and I still consider myself to be a pretty good Dad, despite only seeing the little 'un at weekends now, and some five years or so later, I'm finally starting to talk to my brother again. He's a cock, but it's not his fault, he'd shag anything. -even his wife knows that.

:D!
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Fri 6 Jun 2008, 9:54, 73 replies)