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This is a question School Days

"The best years of our lives," somebody lied. Tell us the funniest thing that ever happened at school.

(, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 12:19)
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Sex Education: in History class…

My school life social fund was financed privately through the fledgling business of ‘Pooflake Vids ltd.’.

Fiendish in it’s simplicity, it was a door-to-door piracy franchise, where chums would pony up the dough for the latest pirate copy of Ghostbusters II or suchlike, which they could happily watch with their parents…even borrow the money for it…but the kids themselves would know that if they fast-forwarded 15 minutes past the end credits there would be a carefully-added 30 minute-snippet of rubbish 70’s grumble flick; with which they could peruse later whilst tugging themselves into a blurry adolescent mist.

I felt I was providing an all-round family service

As an early teen with two VCRs I spent hours mercilessly tape-to-taping my dad’s crappy scudvids until you couldn’t make out the money shots anymore through the on-screen fuzz, (and occasional accidental over-recording of ‘Songs Of Praise’). The kids would provide their own blank tapes and I would charge £5 a pop. Everybody wins.

However, a downside of this ‘booming bishop-bashing business bonanza’ was that I became quickly desensitised to the ways of pr0nnage. I thought that nothing could shock me anymore…

Until one gloomy morning…in history class...

I was already made to sit at the very front with Mark (who later became the guitarist in our band) because we were the ‘disruptive’ children…but in this particular lesson, Mark had decided to enhance the learning experience by sneaking in a special piece of literature to ‘aid our study’.

And so it was during a particularly mundane lecture on the Middle East that Mark nudged me and whispered:

“Psst, Pooflake, look at this” and he slid a magazine onto my lap.

Now I may not be quickest on the uptake, but it soon became apparent that I had been handed a hard-core ‘art’ mag …as the first page was displaying a rather uncomfortable-looking lady…with her head on the floor and her jotter in the air as if she was in the middle of performing a 'backwards roll'.

However, I fear that if she had chosen to continue with the aforementioned gymnastic routine, her manoeuvre would have ended quite painfully, considering the two gargantuan red dildos sticking out of her dungfunnel at an obtuse angle, making her overall bodyshape resemble a strange sort of ‘over-inflated ‘V’ sign’…pointed with malice in the direction of the grinning moustachioed gentleman who was busying himself by 'crashing his yogurt truck' over the base of her spine.

Now, although I was well-versed in the ways of general filth, Jazz and grotmag-ery, this was still a new and interesting visual experience…for a school day anyway.

Glancing across such frolics and frivolity during class quite took me aback, don’t you know. After weighing up the scenario, and carefully measuring the restraint required considering my surroundings, I decided to adopt the appropriate procedure, which was to have my eyes nearly pop out of their sockets, gasp loudly and mouth the words “Fucking HELL!” towards my smirking classmate.

With the mag on my lap, I began to leaf through the pages and quickly felt the stirrings of an inevitable side-effect (that I’m sure to this day is still a rarity for a lecture on the Arab-Isreali conflict…)

I had initiated the ignition / launch procedure for a stupendous throbbing lob-on of epic proportions.

Of course, not being the best multi-tasker in the world (i.e a male), it soon came to pass that I was dedicating more of my time to the magazine, and less to the plight of the Arabs…(or was it the Isrealis?)

There I was, not three feet from my rambling teacher, panting like a dog in a hot car, with the tip of my tongue poking out the side of my mouth, a veritable Trident missile ready to fizz in my clouts, my peepers fixated on my crotch area and the ‘glazed over’ gurn of a freshly ‘fruited up’ mong after an exhaustive bout of the ‘soggy biscuit’ game.

Amongst the sighs, the squirming on my seat and the occasional rustling sound of pages being moved 90 degrees (to maximise centrefold viewing), it was not very long before the teacher noticed something was amiss.

She glanced around to see a room of attentive young eyes, before her gaze fell upon the hulking mound of perspiring love-blubber, in a world of his own and squelching about at the front of the class.

“POOFLAKE!” bellowed the teacher “WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?”

I recoil in shock, my head twisting upwards sharply until I’m staring directly into her enraged, squinty eyes.

erm…” I reply.

“STAND UP, BOY!” she shrieked.

“Ooh…I’d rather not” I begged.

“DO IT!” she screamed.

I slowly rise to my feet, and discovered that somewhere along my journey of erotic enlightenment, my swollen bell-end had escaped through the piss-slit in the middle of my boxers, and was now pressed firmly against the slack material in my grey school trollies. Nothing was left to the imagination. I don’t mean to brag, but I could’ve had someone’s eye out.

I watched as her line of view slowly tracked downwards towards my near-exploding, diamond-cutting pink granite tentpole that was just one thin layer of cheap fabric away from filling the entire classroom with it’s bulging veiny manliness.

She said nothing for a moment, (I’d like to think it took her breath away). Then she reached out and snatched the ‘saucy self-help pamphlet’ from my sweaty clutches.

The class sat in total silence (with the exception of Mark, who in support of my plight had decided to rectally prolapse with badly-stifled laughter) as she scanned across some of the pictures…pictures of which without closer inspection looked more like a soft-lens, close up mish-mash montage of arms, legs, a snifter of chuff-fluff and enough chopped liver to feed every old folk’s home from here to Mozambique.

She remained speechless. My eyes went bloodshot with shame and my face scorched to such a degree that I actually suspected that it could set off the smoke alarms.

Oh yes. I was in trouble.

I was told that the deputy head would send for me later in the day after they had discussed what to do with me.

So far this story is fairly run-of-the-mill...

Here is where it gets weird.

After all that, I left school that day totally unpunished. But THREE, (count ‘em) THREE teachers made a special effort to individually and privately ‘interview’ me on the events that had occurred that day.

I spent the afternoon sat in a cold, pokey little secondary staff room whilst one after the other the men entered…each with dilated pupils and a ‘strange’ fixed expression on their faces…

But there was no scathing lecture on the exploitation of women, punctuated with mournful commentary about how I'd 'not just let myself down, but I'd let the whole school down'. There was no ‘Where did you get the mag?’ or even a: ‘What do you think your parents would say?”.

After long, deliberate pauses, they each asked me questions like:

“How did the pictures make you feel?”

“Desrcibe exactly what was going through your mind as you looked at the photos?”

“What did the images make you want to ‘do’?”

WTF? One even asked me with a scary smirk: “What would you do if you were actually there when these photographs were being taken?”…and “What would you say to these women if you met them ‘in the flesh’?”

What did they expect me to say?...That I’d suddenly developed an inexplicable craving for cream pie?...That from now on, every time I saw the ‘V' Sign (Churchill / Liam Gallagher) I would get an erection?...That the whole sordid commotion made we want to whop my cock out in class and spray soupy schlong-syrup into the teacher’s handbag?

I just shrugged and mumbled: “I dunno…I dunno” to every.single.question.

They then let me go with nothing more than a mild ticking off (but of course they kept the mag).

I brielfy contemplated this bizarre, excruciating experience…before I sprinted out to spread the word of the twisted pervy teachers and their foul depravity of trying to get their kicks by listening to me talk about dildos and wotnot.

On reflection…perhaps they were just trying to make me feel incredibly uncomfortable in an effort to scare me off porn for life…

And if that was their plan…it certainly worked.

Nowadays I can only get a stonk-on watching vids of psychiatrist sessions and old wartime interrogation scenes.
(, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 11:09, closed)

Despite being a veteran reader of your posts Pooflake, I cannot help but go slack jawed in admiration for your poetic use of euphemisms that have thus far escaped even my extensive language bank.

How the fuck do you do it?
(, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 11:23, closed)
I can't help but hope
that this week, just maybe, you'll get that first place you've always wanted.
(, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 11:29, closed)
Oh, I've given up trying to win again...

I've found I'm much happier getting a 'podium place'...then whinging like a twat and complaining about conspiracy theories :)

Cheers though

EDIT: Besides, this one won't win. Even I know it's too long to keep most people's interest...
(, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 11:35, closed)
If it doesn't win
there is no justice.

As PJM said, your use of euphemism is worthy of naught by admiration.
(, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 12:33, closed)
In years to come...
...I confidently predict that scholars of literature will be reading Shakespeare, Chaucer and Pooflake.

When I'm PM, he'll be Poet Laureate.
(, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 13:07, closed)
Pooflake for poet laureate, a genius notion. I'd vote for that! In fact I think we should have a...................hmmm that give me an idea!
(, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 14:02, closed)
thats nice!!!
(, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 11:34, closed)
*clicks hard*
Superbly told!
(, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 12:40, closed)
My dear Pooflake
Even by your monumental, veiny, tumescent standards, that is an absolutely awesome story.
(, Fri 30 Jan 2009, 14:39, closed)

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