House of horrors
I can’t finish on a downer.

About a year or so before the last tale, I was on my way home from an evening shift and, as I passed my local, nipped in to get some cigarettes. Because I knew and couldn’t stand most of its denizens, it was a place I would normally avoid like the plague but, as it happened, there were a couple of guys there who I’d been at school with so I stayed for a drink.

They were chatting to an older woman, in her forties but pretty good-looking, with great cleavage. By the time we left the pub, an hour and two drinks later, I was convinced, even in my usual ignorance of such matters, that she had the hots for me. Unfortunately she’d flirted to the same extent with my two companions so when she invited us back to hers for a drink we were all convinced we were in.

She kept going on about her friend at home – “You must come back and meet her, she’ll really like you.” So that meant two of us were probably OK – but which two? No-one was giving in. The walk back to hers consisted of behind-the-back whispers like: “Fuck off home, will you?” and ‘No - you fuck off. I’m the one that’s in.’ Pathetically comical.

We get back to hers, no-one there. She gets us a drink, her friend will be back soon. Five minutes later there are footsteps outside and the door opens. All three of us look round expectantly and our collective hearts sink like the Titanic.

There stands the biggest, butchest girl I have ever seen to this day. Not overly tall but broad-shouldered to extremes – in fact, she looked like a fucking weightlifter. And not at all unattractive, had she not been so fucking solid. She stood there and surveyed the room. Older Woman smirked and introduced us, then said: ‘What do you think?’

The weightlifter took a pull of her roll-up, in a way that lacked any kind of femininity whatsoever – pinched between finger and thumb, snatched out of her mouth just as she took a drag. She looked us up or down and I felt like a condemned man waiting for the drop. Then she said: ‘The one wi’t ‘tache in’t bad,’ stomped across the room and plonked herself on the sofa next to Gary, whose luxuriant upper-lip growth visibly wilted in her presence.

Older Woman asked her where she’d been and she mentioned a pub that was notorious in the locale. You didn’t go there without a visa, written permission and, preferably, armed guards if you weren’t a regular. She, as it turned out, was.

There followed a bizarre ten minutes during which she tried to engage Gary in conversation. ‘Y’alright, love?’ ‘Live round ‘ere, do yer?’ during which she kept jumping up and looking out of the window at the road outside. Older Woman asked her what she was doing. ‘Oh, just waitin' for so-and-so, 'e’ll be passin' in a minute.’ And, sure enough, a few minutes later we heard footsteps outside and she went out.

Through the open door we heard her say: ‘Eh – fuckin’ come ‘ere, you’, followed by the sound of several punches and exclamations of pain. She came back in dusting her knuckles in her palm. ‘Fuckin’ told ‘im I’d ‘ave ‘im, the cunt,’ she said. We didn’t dare ask who or why.

Back to Gary, who is now a figure of abject terror and can’t push himself back any further into the sofa without getting a spring up his arse. After a few minutes he asked where the toilet was. ‘Through there,’ she nodded to the downstairs loo, getting her tobacco and rizlas out.

We carried on chatting, slightly more relaxed now we knew who her target was. Five minutes passed. ‘E’s a long time, in’t ‘e?’ she said – then a minute or so later she went to see if he’s all right.

She came back in to the room, thunder on her brow. ‘Don’t think much of yer mate,’ she said. ‘E’s fucked off.’ And when I looked over her shoulder, I could see the wide open back door, next to the toilet, evidence of the running away. I heard much later he jumped two garden fences to escape.

Disgruntled, she decide she was going to bed. Alone. And that’s when the fun really started, because neither Neil or I was willing to give in to the other. Despite Older Woman going upstairs and coming back down in a see through top, displaying nipples that were indeed like chapel hat pegs, she got so pissed off with the pair of us that she threw us out twenty minutes later. We walked home, bickering, but in some ways relieved. We’d seen her tits, after all...
(zebideedoodah likes florence but prefers venice, Thu 26 Mar 2015, 11:46, Reply)

Caravan of Love
Sorry - it’s a bit long…

Like many here, I was unbelievably naive as an adolescent. Easy to laugh about much of it but there's one that still haunts me a little.

In the late 70s I worked in Southampton, after I fled the loveless family home at the opposite end of the country. Why Southampton? Well, firstly it was difficult to get any further away - but more than that they offered accommodation, a godsend for a penniless Manc. Didn't mind the place too much, worked with a good crowd - one of whom collared me one day, saying that a couple of them were getting a holiday apartment on the coast. Did I fancy going?

I did, but by the time we actually went, several weeks later, the holiday apartment on the coast had mutated into a six-berth caravan on a campsite at a place called Selsey Bill, just down the coast from Portsmouth. I'd seen too many of these shitholes in Wales to think they could ever be really enjoyable and, having spent my first night out on what we (over-expectantly) referred to as 'the pull', soon found that things were no better at the other end of the country. It was fucking dismal.

We spent a couple of boring days looking out of the window at the rain and the nights wandering round the various on-site bars. None of them were up to much - pool tables, arcade machines, shit lager... until I came back from the bar and found Kenny the Glaswegian (the only one who had any real chat) deep in conversation with a very attractive blonde girl, really pretty with a great arse, who looked about my age.

Then, from behind them, up pops her companion - her mother. Frizzy hair, skinny rather than trim, certainly battered round the edges. Probably literally, given where we were. There was a little girl, too, aged about six, really sweet-natured and very pretty with long blonde hair, who was playing with other children in the bar.

It turned out they were staying in a neighbour's caravan and were from one of Portsmouth's roughest council estates - can't now remember which one (I think it was the one famous for paedo marches a decade or so ago) but I came from a fairly rough council estate and even I recoiled slightly when she mentioned it.

To cut a short story shorter we all ended up back at ours. There were no social niceties to be observed - Kenny immediately disappeared with the blonde in the master bedroom (anyone who's ever been in one of these will know exactly what I mean) - and somehow I ended up in the middle bed with the mother (I think the others went for a resentful stroll for a while).

Now in theory I'd have dipped my wick in any woman who offered but I'm afraid this was beyond me. It was only when we were in bed I realised that I really, really wasn't up for it. At all. We fumbled for a while but Mr Floppy was completely living down to his soubriquet. She finally made some inane remark about me having had too much to drink, I eagerly agreed that must have been the case and so we got up and sat on the couches, waiting for her daughter to emerge from the back bedroom, where she was presumably being rogered senseless by the Glasgow Ram.

The others came back and as we sat there, she talked about their life in the most casual fashion - beaten by this guy, raped by that, her daughter raped as a child - it was a true catalogue of horrors.

I was glazing over and, to be honest, wondering if all this was just designed to elicit sympathy when I had the weirdest sensation of movement. It was a strange rocking motion, as if we were on the sea. I looked at the others - they looked back at me.. it took a few seconds to realise that Kenny and the blonde were now really getting down to it and the four of us were noticeably bouncing up and down on the couches as they approached the vinegar stroke. Surreal doesn’t cover it.

And while this happened the mother turned not a hair - not even a pause in conversation. Probably the most natural thing in the world to her.

But what still bothers me is when she told me about the old man who owned the caravan, who they’d come away with. I asked where the little girl had gone - he was looking after her, she said. And then she mentioned that they didn't pay for the stay. Like an idiot I said that must be nice of him. And she said, totally matter-of-factly: "Oh, no - he likes looking after X (the little girl). She shows him her knickers."

I had no idea what to say - or even what to think. This was so far outside my realm of experience that I just did not know how to react, as much as I thought it wrong. Plus, this was the child's mother talking - surely I must have got it wrong, somehow. I hadn't, though.

Even now I feel really guilty that I was told this and I didn't do anything. Do what, though? Take her away? That wouldn't happen. Tell the police or social services? At that time that sort of behaviour was more likely to be ignored than acted upon. There were no graphic depictions of the consequences - people like the old man were the ones you were severely warned to stay away from, with no-one ever wanting to say why. It just left you with the impression that while it’s bad, it can’t be that bad.

Presumably this was how the mother grew up and thought nothing of it. I wonder what happened to them all – did they grow up to be battered and abused in their turn? Was sex as casual an event for the youngest as it was for the other two? Did they end up on the game? Possibly – looking back I think that might not have been an unfamiliar scenario for the mother. What an awful thing to even contemplate – let alone experience.

ps: During the days we remained there, the blonde shagged everyone except me - presumably I got a bad review from the mother. Think I'll live with that, though.
(zebideedoodah likes florence but prefers venice, Thu 26 Mar 2015, 1:35, 3 replies)

Crazy party you say? Did someone do cocaine off someone's penis hahaha? Well...
My ex-girlfriend's friend wanted to go drinking down at the local pub with me, my ex, and their gay best friend. We did and it was a blast. The friend was wearing a very short skirt which flashed her knickers to everyone as she walked. We drank. We talked. It was a good time. We went back to my ex's friend's flat.

The knicker flashing friend wanted to do cocaine and knew the chap she could get it from. Another friend's boyfriend. He drove over blind drunk with the said cocaine. The knicker flashing friend fucked this man, tattooed beer gut and all, for the said cocaine.

Turns out, as they were fucking, the gay best friend wandered into the room and wanted to watch the fun. He passed out on the bed and woke up 30mins later. One thing led to another and he snorted a line of cocaine off the man's penis.

It was the beginning of the end for my ex and I. For some reason I didn't like her friends.
(giveupned, Thu 26 Mar 2015, 1:26, Reply)

Guyrim.

(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Wed 25 Mar 2015, 21:14, Reply)

Half way through my first time ...
... I realised I had no idea who this person was I was shagging. This bothered me a bit. So halfway through i thought to myself, "I can't do this without at least knowing her name and afterall this isn't exactly as memorable yet as I'd hoped..."
So half way though I stopped, held out my hand announced my name (we actually shook hands!) then she told me hers, we sat back and laughed before continuing like rabbits.
A while later (the deed took place in the back room of a party) a bloke came up to me asked me my name and when I told him he hit me, took hold of what I assume was the lady I'd just been with and man handled her into his car.
He'd broken three of my teeth and I never saw either of them again.
Pretty good shag mind (for a first attempt).
Her name was Laurie.
If you're out there and still remember the 80's ......actually, don't.
(John Elton, Wed 25 Mar 2015, 18:50, 2 replies)

Something something something Jimmy Savile's career.

(eViLegion Chief Commissioner of the Scottish Lunacy Board, Wed 25 Mar 2015, 15:32, 1 reply)

I can...
Make ladies spurt. I am inordinately proud of this.
(Vinegar strokes Should know better on, Mon 22 Nov 2010, 14:38, Ignore, closed)
( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Wed 25 Mar 2015, 14:02, 14 replies)