b3ta.com qotw
You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Home » Question of the Week » Stalked » Page 1 | Search
This is a question Stalked

Have you been stalked? Or have you done the stalking? Is that you in the bushes outside with the nightvision goggles?

(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 15:40)
Pages: Latest, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, ... 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Only one
But he scared the crap out of me. Mostly I'd meet a guy, he'd take my number, we'd go for a few dates, I'd decided that it's not meant to be (and informed them of this), and then spend months avoiding his calls (I have quite a few "do not answer!" numbers on my phone).

One, however, was quite scary. I was in halls in Camberwell, and our saturday nights tended to be spent at "RedStar", a dodgy club on Camberwell Green. It was a good place to get wasted, dance to cheese and glam rock tunes, grab a kebab and then meander back to halls. Until Freakboy. Freakboy wandered up, asked my name, and then simply grabbed hold of my norks and refused to let go. He had to be pried off by a couple of friends, who told him to piss off. Half an hour later, he came back for more, but I screamed at him to leave me alone, I wasn't interested. The bouncers saw that he was giving us a bit of trouble, and told him he'd better go home and sleep it off. So meekly he stumbled out of the club, and we thought that would be the last of it.

It wasn't.

He simply went and sat in the 24-hour cafe opposite the club, waiting until we left. He then followed us back to halls. We weren't aware of this until he tried to sneak in behind us at the gates, but was asked for his ID card. So he started screaming "BobFossil! BobFossil! I wants ya!", at which point we realised that (a) he'd followed us, (b) he was more of a psycho than we originally thought, and (c) he now knew where I lived. Bugger.

However, worse was to come. Another group of people came along after us, and found him still at the gate, muttering incoherently. Amongst this group of people was Ben, a scheming, malicious, thieving twat of the highest order. He didn't like me, I didn't like him. There was no particular reason, but we just didn't click. Like the fucked-up git that he is, he gave Freakboy my number. "Just for a laugh", apparently.

So I got a call that night, from Freakboy in a sobbing rage. "BobFossil! I've got to have you! I loooove you! Please come down and let me in!". Erm, no way. The following day I got a bunch of texts, escalating in tone, none of which I replied to. They declared his love for me, then called me a cock-teasing bitch, then he loved me again and was sorry for the previous text, then said he was going to hurt me, and the final one said he was going to kill myself. All the while, I was freaking out, scared to leave halls, and thinking of ways to kill Ben.

After another few days of texts like those, and random phone calls in the middle of the night (and friends reporting seeing him hanging around the entrance to the halls), I texted him to say that I was reporting him to the police, and changed my number. No more texts or calls, thankfully, but I still had to leave and return to halls with a bunch of other people, as he was still hanging around in the evenings. I was a complete nervous wreck, and hadn't been able to sleep properly for nearly a week. Eventually the halls security people called the police on him, as they were sick and tired of him banging on the door trying to get in. Turns out this wasn't the first time he'd tried it on with women living locally, but it was the most persistent he'd been. However, I haven't been back to RedStar, and I still feel nervous when in Camberwell (7 years later).

Although he only actually stalked me for a month at the most, he ruined my experience of living in hall. I hate him for making me such a nervous wreck, and for men (and women) like him who persist in terrorising people, having deluded themselves that they're meant to be together forever. /rant over.
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:44, 9 replies)
Hopefully she never actually noticed.
Let me take you back a decade or two to when A 19 year old Big D had just got his first ever grown up job.
One of the people he worked with was a lawyer who shall be known as "Red"
Red had flaming red hair, a smile that could melt a snowman's heart and the sort of figure guaranteed to make 19 year olds go a bit funny.
Big D, in contrast, had a mop of untidy brown hair, a smile that frightened people and the sort of figure you'd expect from somebody mostly living on lager and kebabs. Since he hadn't quite got the hang of doing his own laundry yet he probably smelt a bit funny too.
Big D made a point of trying to be in Red's presence as often as possible. (Big D probably stared at Red's backside way too much too). He always leapt at the chance to help Red in any way possible and on office pissups Big D tried to charm Red with his wit and wordly knowledge. Since he had neither this was probably never going to work.
For a while he even tried to time his exits from work to coincide with hers.
And sent Red the one Valentines day card he has ever sent in his life.

Then, at one Christmas do, Red and her boyfriend took to the floor for a dance.

There's two possible options for what happened next. Feel free to pick one that suits you.
1. Big D watches the two of them together and sees how happy she is. He realises that he probably stands no chance at winning Red's heart. He also realises that he's being a bit of a twat.
2. Big D watches the two of them together and twigs that her boyfriend is much, much bigger than him. He realises that he has probably never come closer to getting his head kicked in. And, obviously, that he's being a bit of a twat.
Not long after Big D left for pastures new.

So, either Red never actually noticed that she had her own stalker or she was incredibly patient with a weird but harmless young man. Who grew into a weird but harmless thirty-something that tries not to be such a knob these days.
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:37, Reply)
Yes, but it was far better than what happened to a friend
There was this pasty, bespectacled English major who took a liking to me (I am also pasty and bespectacled, but in a 'sexy librarian' way, I'm told).

He managed to appear at social functions, restaurants and other places where I happened to be. I recognised him but, as he never spoke to me, thought nothing of it nor the evil looks my friends would give him.

Then the letter arrived. It was a long, detailed, and rather sad account of how he 'loved' me, 'knew we were meant to be together' and other similar ideas that bordered on the bizarre. It soon became clear as to why I had no idea of his self-proclaimed devotion -- he mentioned he'd made the mistake of telling a girlfriend of mine how he thought he felt and she threatened to beat the strange out of him if he came within hearing range of me.

Naturally, I showed the letter to her and all my other dear friends. That night, at an open poetry reading, a very drunk K read the letter on stage. Polite-stalker boy wasn't there, but a large number of people who knew him were, seeing as the event was sponsored by the English department.

To his credit, he later apologised for putting me in an uncomfortable situation. It ended up that he was more socially awkward than psycho and we ended up being friends.

Not so with a co-worker and friend of mine -- she got the psycho.

First started the anonymous letters, gifts and flower arrangements. Then came the frightening letters. Then came the death threats and kidnapping threats and pictures of her obviously taken without her knowledge out in public, some of which had been mutilated or covered in fake (we hoped) blood.

The police were contacted and they actually reacted quickly, saying it resembled other open stalking cases, including one where a girl was missing. Our boss told her to stay in the back at work. If anyone we didn't know personally came in to ask for her, we were to hide her in the office, lie and call security.

We shuffled her from one friend's place to the next every night; we'd take her from school or work in one person's car, meet somewhere and hand her off to another friend to take her to the night's destination. That may sound over the top, but after we found some of his letters at the first two places she stayed, we were taking no chances.

Then one day they caught the guy. Turns out he'd been stalking several women, all of whom he'd chosen at a church service. He was able to get their names and addresses from a member list and went on a little stalk-a-thon. In his house, they found plans to abduct and kill my friend, among other horrible things. I don't know if they ever connected him to the missing girl, but I do know he's not up for parole any time soon and a damned good thing that is, too.
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:36, 1 reply)
This girl started following me home
Eventually, she worked out my route, set an ambush, and covered me head to toe in margarine.

And that's how I was Storked.

Sorry, CHCB
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:36, 3 replies)
I had a girlfriend on the telly once.
She was a real hoity-toity, goody-two-shoes type. She'd come on telly every couple of weeks telling me how different blokes were mean and tough because they did robberies and assaults and stuff.

She was gorgeous though, all leggy and blonde and sexy as hell. I wrote her a stack of letters and emails to tell her so, calling her my Dandy-dundy-doodlepops, but she got a restraining order against me and I heard her refer to me as unpleasant.

I followed the bitch home and blew her face off on her own doorstep. That teached her!

(may be a lie)
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:34, 2 replies)
stalked myself straight
once knew this girl,who was,in her own way,divinely pretty,blonde,fun,interesting,simple,kind and sweet.i found out where her house was,followed her around school,listened to the kind of music she liked,tried to get into her inner circle (no,not like that),talked to her at every opportunity,joined the clubs she was in and generally acted the creepy prepubescent oddity i was.
having made myself pretty much her shadow,and in prep to spirit her away to Istanbul to get married [i dont know why,seemed a nice idea] i suddenly realised i hated the sight of her and thought she was a vacuous uninteresting quine.
it almost seemed like a betrayal....
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:34, Reply)
Nuneaton women
Years ago i worked full time in a pub in Nuneaton town centre and being younger, fitter and with hair in those days I used to have a great time flirting (occassionally more) with lady customers. (Having all my own teeth, no facial tattoos and the ability to write both my first name and surname was also a big plus). One night I got chatting to a dirty thirty type who drunkenly proceeded to tell me about he rubbish home life, her brattish kids and her lack of a satisfactory sex life. I must have subliminally implied that I wanted to be with her forever because she came in every night for the next 2 weeks, culminating in the bouncers throwing her out for standing at the bar, clawing at her clothes and screaming 'What's wrong with me? Why won't you fuck me you ungrateful bastard?'. At the bar in a pub with about 500 people in.
She pulled up beside me in a car about 2 years after and told me that I was a fool to let her go. I'm sure she had followed me into the cul-de-sac where I lived. Treacle town ladies are mental.
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:33, 6 replies)
i suffer from insomnia
and like to go for late-night walks to tire myself out.

one night, i was about half a mile from home, when i noticed there was a guy following me. i crossed the road several times, doubled back on myself, all the old tricks. he was still following me.

i'd been walking in well-lit areas up till now, but the last street before my block had broken streetlights and dark alleys. i didn't want him following me down there, he could have attacked me without anyone seeing.

i walked around the corner about 10 seconds before him and waited.

as he walked around the corner, he jumped, seemingly startled to find me there. he stopped as, conjuring up the weirdest "smile" i could muster, i leaned towards him and said "i like the vans without the windows".

it worked! suitably freaked out, he turned around and hurriedly set off back the way we had come. i waited until he had gone a couple of hundred yards, then ran the rest of the way home. it was only once i was safely inside that i realised just how lucky i had been. i wouldn't suggest to anyone that they adopt this approach, it might very well get them killed.

i never go for night-time walks these days without some kind of weapon.
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:33, 8 replies)
This isn't actually very funny
This happened just over 3 years ago. I had crashed at a mates house one night in the summer, for an evening of carefree powder abuse and copious bong comsumption.

At the time I was still living with my mum and dad. My dad called me in the evening to ask if I'd remembered to lock the door when I left. the practise was for me to lock the front door and leave the key in a cubby hole in the wall. When they had come home the front door had been slightly ajar, the key back in the usual place.

I didn't think much of it at the time, got mashed with my friends and had a generally pleasent evening. Drove home the next afternoon, my parents were away out so I let myself in the front door. First thing I noticed was a piece of paper on the stairs. It was a quote from a Hunter S Thompson novel that had been sitting on the desk in my room. "Very odd" thinks I.

And so I go up into my bedroom. All of my drawers had been pulled out and replaed so they were sitting at an angle half hanging off the runners. My bong had been tipped over and a pile of magazines next to my bed (just Evo and Top Gear, no pr0n) had been rifled through and were lying scattered around the place. Further to this, a pair of black Sloggi For Men boxer shorts had been removed from my underwear drawer.

A very strange occurence, I'm sure you will agree. Someone had let themself into my parents house, crept around till they found my room and gone through all my personal belongings.

There was a £400 Yamaha Semi-Acoustic Classical Guitar, a slimline PS2, a set of decent Gemini turntables, two boxes of records, a Cambridge Audio amp, a Sony TV, an LG DVD player and a stash box with substantial amounts of various illicit substances and cash in my room, all of which were untouched, so theft was clearly not a motive (apart from the theft of my keks apparently).

I was pretty creeped out for a few days, but nothing else happened and there have been no similar occurences since then.

I also hope whoever has my attractive underwear is getting a lot of 'use' out of them.

(Looking back it maybe is kind of funny, in a black comedy kind of way)
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:31, Reply)
Ahhh Chris
When I was about 16 I had a brief encounter with a bloke called Chris. He was tall, dark, and a bit....worrying. But it's alright because I was very, very drunk.

The Friday night we drunkenly snogged I went home on my own, perfectly happy that I was ON MY OWN and went to bed. The next night I went out to the same bar and again, met Chris. He was very, very clingy and I had to have a quiet word along the lines of 'I was drunk, you're a bit frightening, please leave me alone'.

Fair enough, thinks I. I then walk home, this time with a big male friend who has seen the way Chris was acting and decided it'd be better for me to have a bit of company. Again, we were happy with being on our own, or so we though.

But we can't have been. Chris must have followed us.

My bedroom at my parents house was at the back, and my window looked over the flat roof of the kitchen. I went to bed that night, with the window open to allow my lovely cat to go in and out as she pleased. Mistake.

Half twoish am, I am shaken rather violently awake by Chris, who is very angry that I have ended our 'relationship' and wants an explanation.

'DAAAAAAAAAAAAAD!' Screams I, whilst kicking Chris rather hard in the shoulder (I was aiming for his head but he was at the wrong angle).

It's all alright now, I didn't see him after that night and haven't since. I think my dad holding him up against my wardrobe by his neck and explaining in great detail which bits of him will be removed if he ever goes near his precious daughter again may have helped.

(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:23, Reply)
Forgive me. It's after 3am here.

Cops pulled me one time as I'd been seen in the local barley field ripping up the plants by the roots...

"OK Legless - what are you - some kind of stalker?" chortles Plod

"It's worse than that officer" I replied.

"I'm a cereal killer......."

In your face! Pooflake....

(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:18, 6 replies)
um... well. maybe.
I met my first girlfriend of my fresher year at college when I moved into a house I shared with her and another girl. They were both third years and inevitably the relationship went tits up after a couple of months. I then had to last the next 10 months with them till the contract ran out.
The relationship being short and pretty intense and me being a long way from home meant that I got a teeny bit upset at the time.
to express the pain I felt inside, that my 18 year old self hadn't the emotional maturity to express, I wrote down some lyrics in a letter and left the missive on her pillow.

I am still not sure exactly what I thought sting was talking about in 'every breath you take', but it only clicked about 4 years after.

Hindsight is a cruel mistress.
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:14, Reply)
My Shit Stalker Story by Ms Playgirl aged 25 and a bit
Way back when in the depths of 2002 I was quite lonely and very desperate. So, when a Jesus and Mary Chain era Bobby Gillespie lookalike (complete with 80s bowlcut) latched onto me in a club one night I was rather flattered. And when he started snogging me then hey, even better. In retrospect, perhaps I should have noticed the warning signs when I a) repeatedly saw him talking to a wall when I went to the bar to get a drink and b) he ran off towards the end of the evening without saying goodbye. He just disappeared in a quasi-Cinderella-esque manner.

I did see him again a few weeks later and once again he latched on me-mainly by the face. We started dating and it soon became apparent that this young gentleman was a bit...peculiar. He had no social skills whatsoever, wouldn't communicate with any of my friends making me feel I had the boyfriend equivalent of Sooty on my arm, and also point blank refused to drink from any of the taps in my house. Then again, I was living in Stockwell at the time so perhaps he was onto something there.

As time went on I came to the conclusion that whilst I was desperate, I wasn't THAT desperate and decided to kick his bowlcut to the curb. However, being a bit weird, Wallboy didn't take this well. Oh no no no. First he started calling me. Repeatedly. Around fifty to sixty times a day. When I told him to stop he said I must have real self esteem issues for not wanting to date him any longer. When he realised that this tactic wasn't working, he started to hide in the bushes outside my house which actually was quite amusing because he wasn't very good at it and our mental neighbours beat him up because they thought he was a peeping Tom.

Eventually it stopped being amusing and just became downright annoying, so one night in the company of my comedy-Geordie mates and a hell of a lot of Gin, we recorded an answering machine message which just comprised of myself and five other foghorn gobbed people shouting "GO AWAY DAMON!" Surprisingly enough it worked, and after the first ten times of reaching my answerphone he realised he should probably take the hint and fuck off. However, it took a hell of a lot of explaining whenever my parents or my bank manager called me up though...
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:13, 1 reply)
The Birds!
I was followed to work by a pigeon today. I swear I saw it outside Mile End station this morning and I noticed it on the way to class and now it's on my office windowsill cooing its little head off.

Coming to think of it, I'm pretty sure I saw it yesterday too.

If I don't post again after this then you'll know it's got me... remove all bird seed from the South East London area and cull the fucker.
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:11, Reply)
It still makes me cringe thinking about it. I met a guy of an internet dating site about 5 years ago. After a drink in a pub I decided I didn't fancy him, we met up once after that, at the bottom of a mountain. He tried to kiss me, being a good foot shorter than me he got a swift sharp knee to the bollocks.

I had to ask for a lift home *shame*

He proceeded to call me for 3 weeks telling me that in fact I did love him, want his babies and if I didn't agree he'd hurt my parent. He left me alone when I pretended to call the cops.
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:10, 1 reply)
Can't be all bad.

I mean John Hinckley shot Ronald Regan to prove his love to his stalkee, Jodi Foster, so some good can come out of it.

But the bastard deserved all the time he spent in prison as he didn't do a proper job.

(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:09, 3 replies)
The internets are bad
A forum I used to frequent had a chatroom, it was a nice enough place and by and large we all got along.

Then "she" joined Jane (not "her" name) a pre op transexual who took a shine to me.

Jane mentioned one night in the chatroom that she had drove past where I worked today.

When questioned as to why "she" was in the area (she lives in Bristol, I lived near Hereford) She replied I just wanted to see me once.

I hadn't told her where I worked she just went to every dealership of the firm i was working at the time in a big scary day trip style.

Another time Jane was talking to the lady who is now my wife and told her that we were going to runaway together.

The only thing I ever did was be nice and not rip the piss out of her.
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:08, Reply)
Well, they seemed alright
We met a couple on holiday, and for the first couple of days they seemed quite nice. He was a bit of a "fiveskin" but she seemed really pleasant. Easy to talk to, asked lots of questions. Good company.

Until they started "joining" us in restaurants and bars, whether we liked it or not. Turned up everywhere we went, ate the same food, and drank the same beer. Bit pushy, we thought.

Got down to the pool late one morning and they've kept us sunbeds, right beside them. Okay, thanks. Where are we going tonight, they wanted to know. We haven't decided yet. We'll wait in reception for you, then. Oh dear.

We hung about in our room for hours, hoping they'd get fed up and go out by themselves. No such luck. We finally appeared four hours after leaving the pool, and there they were. All gussied up for the night out. Smiling bleakly at each other, we put up with them. For the next ten days, everywhere we went, they were right behind us.

We could not shake this couple off. We tried saying we fancied a quiet, romantic meal. For two. They still waited in reception. We tried going out really, really early, but they still managed to be waiting for us. The person I am now wouldn't put up with it, but this was our first time abroad, we were young and didn't want to be rude.

Our tolerance lasted until the final night. Sitting at the table, nice meal inside us, a few beers have gone down. Then fiveskin asks his question.

"Fancy coming back to our room for a foursome, then?"

I choked on my beer, and couldn't say a word. Mr Witch had no such problem and suggested that they fcuk right off. There and then. Before he got angry. They wisely decided that was the best idea. Thankfully, they were with a different tour company and going to a different airport, so we never saw them again.

Some of you may be wondering why we kept wanting to be alone and reacted with horror at the suggestion of a foursome. More likely you couldn't care less, but I'm telling you anyway! Aside from the fact that we don't share.....

This was our honeymoon!
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 16:07, 3 replies)
in reality
I've had 4 stalkers. Only one of them had a gun. Another of them used physical violence. Yet another read my emails. The last left underwear on my desk.

Never stalked anyone myself. The closest I get is sending nice personal messages to people. :)
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 15:59, 3 replies)
When my father was in the army...
...he was once followed by a very persistent tiger in a Malaysian jungle which, by all outward appearances, wished to eat him.

Does that count as being stalked?

If so, you could argue that, as I hadn't been born yet, and was a part of his corpus (quite possibly a sperm swimming around in his gonads), that I had been present (sort of), and would have been subject to said stalking also?

Look, at least I'm not doing a bloody pun.
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 15:57, Reply)
[Inserts lengthy story ending in a play on words involving plants and stalks, stocks and the suchlike, thereby pre-empting and removing the necessity for puns until at least next Wednesday.]
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 15:56, 1 reply)
Freak liked me
I was working in a record store and this guy would come in and hang about staring. He wasn't minging so I didn't mind too much.

Then one day I got in the staff lift and there he was in staff uniform grinning and ready to start work in Singles. I thought, 'Ok, that's fine'. Over the next few weeks he let everyone know that he was interested in working in the DVD dept, where I was working - AAAARRRGGGHHHH!

Luckily he was shit at his job and got the push. Freak.
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 15:52, Reply)
Hey, it actually fits! Here's one I prepared earlier.
This post is not suitable for children or the short of attention span. It contains scenes of a sexually raunchy nature, literary and cultural allusions, one mild drug reference, foreign words and is free from all apologies for length.

It may, however, contain nuts.

* * * * *

“On va au cinoche ce soir?” someone asked. We were sitting around in Nass’s room, fat-chewing and breeze-shooting in a Banlieu-stylee.

Nass was my best friend at that time; we’d met the previous summer in Nice, travelled back up North to Paris together, where I’d stayed a week or so at her place in Colombes, then back to London where she stayed with me for a week or so, before we went off grape picking together in the Langeudoc region. When we’d met first in July, I spoke passable French, could ‘get by’ and even follow part of a conversation between French people, but as Nass didn’t speak a word of English and liked to talk, by the time we separated after the grape picking in late September, I was not only fluent, but had picked up a fair amount of Parisian argot – that’s slang to you lot – as well as a distinct Parisian accent. I was a born again Francophile, listening to Renaud, reading Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir in the original…I was starting to think things to myself and even dream in French.

But this was the following spring, and I’d taken a long weekend break from temping in London and was staying with Nass. She was great; about 4’ 11” high, stylish in an ethnic, artless shabby-chic kind of way, Algerian parents, John Lennon glasses, teeth like a young Shane MacGowan but a smile like sunshine breaking through clouds. She was talkative and opinionated and fun and could become serious but was hardly ever moody. She was full of life and game for a laugh and she was my copine, my frangine. Of all my ‘friends of the opposite sex’, she was the bestest friend and as neither of us remotely fancied the other, we could safely share a tent without the least problem. I loved her like a sister and would have defended her to the death.

Anyway, back to the day in question. “Alors, qu’est-ce q’on fait ce soir?” There was a bunch of us sat around, and there’s no way I can remember them all but Nass’s best friend Titine (that’s Christine) was there and Gilles, who was a conscientious objector. Not sure exactly how conscientious he was exactly, bearing in mind his fondness all things cannabis related, but he was definitely an objector: he had opted for the ambulance service rather than going into the army for his national service. I seem to remember that this was no soft option – may have meant serving twice as long or something – but it did mean he didn’t have to cut his hair, which seemed important – though choosing not to wash it either was less understandable.

Nass was living in a ‘foyer’, and by this I don’t mean she crashed out where the doorman and the lifts were. It was a kind of hostel; the best way to describe it would be to say that it was a hall of residence for young people that weren’t students. Brilliant idea, don’t know why we don’t do it here. Post-18, can’t/don’t want to live with your folks, can’t afford your own flat, want the company of like-situated people, want a canteen and laundry on hand, don’t need much personal space, willing to share a bathroom with a few others? All this and the support of tres sympa social worker type wardens on hand to help you out with personal problems looking for work, claiming benefits, etc. etc. This is why I can’t remember who else was there, people came and went all the time.

So, the cinoche – what’s on? When I heard that ‘Brazil’ was playing, I convinced the gang to go see it. Now, being good b3tans, I’m sure you’re all familiar with it, but this was Paris in the spring of 1985, and the film had only come out the year before in the UK. I remember seeing it for the first time, shortly after sitting through the much anticipated version of Orwell’s ‘1984’ with John Hurt and Richard Burton and thinking how very much better ‘Brazil’ was at portraying an alternative present dystopia. Anyway, I talked them into it and we trooped off into the heart of Paris on the French version of Network SouthEast, Colombes being outside the reach of the Metro. There must have been between half a dozen and a dozen of us I suppose, all talking 19 to the dozen as young people everywhere tend to do.

We were a bit early for the film so went to a café for beer or coffee or whatever and a cigarette of course – Paris, café, coffee, ciggie – I was smoking Gaulois Blonde probably, a very fair substitute for Camels at a quarter of the price and in a nice blue packet. We chatted away about this and that; I don’t know about Ireland, not having been there, but I always found in France that the craic was good.

On to the film. We shambled in with much noise, laughter, pushing and shoving and I settled down for a couple of hours of English language (with French sub-titles). I don’t know about you at the cinema, but I like to have my elbows on the arms of the seat and will usually fight for my rights. This time, although I’d bagged them as soon as I sat down, the girl sat on my left insisted on insinuating her elbow onto the same arm-rest, bad form or what? It was very uncomfortable so I gave way gracefully and settled down to watch the film and was soon lost in Gilliam’s wonderful creation. The only annoyance being constant shifting from the girl in the next seat who couldn’t seem to get comfortable.

Film over, we all trooped off back to the train and headed for home. When we sat down I found myself opposite, and thereby almost knee to knee with the annoying girl from the cinema, although, in the light, I realised that woman was a better description. She started chatting to me about this and that, and she managed to keep my attention despite the fact that she was wearing a vest t-shirt under her open jacket which gave me a pretty good idea of the hilly landscape which lay beneath, especially as there was a goodly amount of cleavage on show. Thinking back, I’m pretty certain she was leaning forward and may have had her arms closer together than normal too. In fact, although I can remember the view of her chest, I can’t actually remember any of the conversation…funny that.

It transpired that Therese – for that’s what I’ll call her – was actually the warden for the hostel, or one of the team anyway, and when we got back, we all went to her room. This was a bit bigger than the others and it also had its own bathroom en suite. We were squashed in next to each other, along with about three other people on a low futon-type sofa. I was plied with vin rouge and the next thing I remember is Therese leaning in very close to me and asking huskily, right in my ear, if I wanted to take a shower.

Now, you lot know me – I’m no genius, but I’m no thickie either, but for some reason, I was being very slow on the uptake that day. I’ve had a few years to think about this and can only put it down to the fact that at that time, I would have considered anyone over the age of, say, 25 as ‘above the radar’ if you know what I mean. Now you can argue about age difference all you like and what’s old and what’s young, but at that time I was 21 and Therese was 30. By my reckoning that made her 50% older than me, or to put it another way, an ‘older woman’. Anyway, eventually, I cottoned on; I didn’t take a shower but I did consent to a one-to-one practical tutorial in French Kissing – Advanced Level. I believe that around that time, the room emptied as our guests filed off to someone else’s room.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Therese got me to help her turn the sofa into a bed and then pulled me down onto it. I managed to get my DMs off in the time it took her to completely disrobe and then she began helping me off with my clothes while kissing me in some pretty intimate places. Her breasts were revealed to be as fulsome and lovely as I had imagined, her figure was trim, her ardour was high, we became acquainted. Pretty soon, she assumed what I was to learn was her favourite position: lying on her back with her knees spread wide, but with her feet somehow tucked under her bum, thereby raising her hips up a little, presenting Little Che – who, belying his moniker, was vastly engorged, rigid as a pool cue and, if I’m not much mistaken, giving off a low hum as he twitched playfully in time to my racing pulse – a clear target to aim at. Still, I hesitated.

“Baise-moi” she breathed, as her fingers reached down to part her lips for me, looking for all the world like an Egon Schiele painting come to life. I didn’t need asking twice so, after positioning Little Che for the ‘off’, I propped myself up on fully extended arms, the better to enjoy the view, then set the Little fella to work, teasingly slowly at first, not too deep, feeling his way, savouring every sensation, easing him into the warm, wetness, deeper with each forward movement, as her intoxicating scent arose, mixing with my own sweatiness. Once I’d ‘pulled up to the bumper’, I slowly increased the speed, still teasing, but when her encouragement became urging I fell to with a will, and we began the journey towards that distant goal in earnest. My arms began to ache so I lowered myself onto my elbows for a second wind, pumping and then thrashing, as if riding towards the finish line, five furlongs out…and as the crowd roared us home, I passed the post just ahead of her then slowed to a canter, a walk and finally stopped, smiled down at her smile, kissed her gently, withdrew, kissing her breasts before rolling off, sweating, dripping and spent.

We sat up with a sheet pulled up to cover our cooling bodies and enjoyed a post-coital smoke and a glass of wine. The second time was as good as the first. Little Che and the bollock brothers rose manfully to the occasion and, if it was a 2.5 mile-er rather than a straight mile sprint, it was a close enough finish to please the crowd. I’d had an each-way bet on myself so was happy enough to come in second place by a length.

The next thing I knew, it was morning. I was lying curled up on my left side, with Therese curled behind me, her warm breasts pressed against my back, her right arm draped over me and her gentle fingers exploring and encouraging Little Che’s ‘salute to the sun’.

“Bonjour,” I said, turning onto my back and half sitting up against the pillows. I pulled Therese towards me for a cuddle but quick as a flash she threw her right leg over me and straddled my thighs. Then, steadying herself on my shoulders, she sat up and forwards and as smoothly as a spaceship manoeuvre, located the capsule in the mother-ship’s docking station before sinking back down and fully engaging.

This time, I let her do all the work, while I played with her marvellous tits, making her nipples stand out hard and proud, lifting them up and flicking my tongue across them, but after a while I became distracted by the action down below and gave it my full attention, even assisting a little by reaching behind her, grasping her arse and bucking up and down against her thrusts. After, I held her close while Little Che slowly softened inside her and she sighed deeply and told me that I’d really better take that shower now.

Off I sauntered to the en suite. As I turned on the light and caught sight of myself in the mirror over the sink, I gave myself a mischievous wink and a grin, before turning on the shower taps and stepping into for a good old rinse off, making sure I got all the gunk out of my nether hairy region. Poor old Little Che thought that round four was on the cards, especially as I vigorously dried the old chap, but though he swung jauntily as I made my way back into the bedroom, and I could see Therese contemplating a return match, I safely reached my black cotton briefs, pulled them on and up, tucking the lad away with mingled regret and relief. On went 501s, t-shirt, socks and DMs, I picked up my jacket and with a brief kiss, I was off with a promise to meet up in the cafeteria in 15 minutes.

I was only a tiny bit sheepish as I knocked on Nass’ door, but I needn’t have worried. As I pulled on a fresh t-shirt she explained to me what had happened the previous afternoon. Therese had asked her if the two of us were an item, when Nass said ‘no’, she’d asked if I was attached, when Nass said ‘no’, she asked if Nass would mind is she made a move on me. Nass said ‘be my guest’. She passed the word around everyone except me and we were thus shoved together at the cinema, train, sofa etc. I wasn’t sure what to think.

We went down to breakfast and when Therese came in, fresh as a lily, she monopolised me, asking what my plans for the day were. I didn’t have any, “Can you meet me at 1pm in front of the Pompidou Centre?”


“I’m not on duty tonight, so I’ll have to go back home [chez moi] this evening.”

“Oh,” I said naively, “do you live with your parents?”

Her face went through several unreadable emotions and then she laughed, “No! I live with my boyfriend.”

* * * * *

We met that afternoon and Therese took me to a small hotel in the centre of Paris. As we walked along, she put her arm around my waist and I noticed how petite she was – no more than 5’ 1” and how terribly French somehow, with her bobbed hair, casually smart clothes, careful make-up, cigarette, firm round bum. At the hotel, she paid for a room and we performed the now familiar ballet, though this time with her lying across the still-made bed, her head hanging over the edge, showing off her magnificent boobs to their best advantage.

We probably went somewhere for a coffee afterwards, and she probably gazed adoringly into my eyes as I lit her cigarette with my zippo, then probably held my hands and promised to write.

I left Paris early the next day with promises to return and went back home to London and a series of undemanding, underpaid, unskilled temping jobs. I think it’s fair to say I was feeling pretty smug and I was certainly in credit at the wank bank for a change. Therese wrote; she sent me a card which said ‘Je craque sans toi’ on the front and had words of endearment inside. She also suggested a trip to Berlin in the summer.

This was looking promising. I was still getting letters from Ursula [see: ‘beautiful but bonkers’] and there was also another girl in Tubingen that I was quite keen to see again thanks to the best one-night-stand of my life the previous year. If I played my cards carefully, I could bonk my merry way across Germany in the summer.

* * * * *

Woody Allen said once: “How do you make God laugh? Answer: Tell him your plans for the future.” Little did I know that during a temp placement as a filing clerk at a family planning clinic, Cupid would be lying in wait for me, and rather than the usual cute little bow and arrow, he’d borrowed Detritus’ crossbow. I’m still – 23 years on – reeling from the blow and will possibly never recover.

* * * * *

I’d already agreed with a friend to spend another weekend in Paris – he had friends there too – so off we went, though I probably bored him to tears with talk of Xena (the future Mrs Grimsdale) on the overnight ferry journey. I’d only had three days work at the clinic and had only managed to meet up with her once since then but I was walking on air none-the-less.

Predictably, as soon as I stepped over the threshold, Therese dragged me off to an unoccupied room and proceeded to give me an appetite for breakfast. Being perceptive, she could tell that, although one of my organs was fully engaged in proceedings, my heart was clearly not in it at all. Over breakfast she got the full story from me. I told her that I couldn’t come to Berlin, that I couldn’t write to her any more, that I couldn’t see her again – and total unfeeling selfish bastard that I was, I have no idea now how she took it.

I returned home and began my serious pursuit of Xena. My supporting role in a minor French farce was over and memories of Therese faded from my mind like morning mist in the sunshine.

- FIN –

* * * * *

I know you lot like a happy ending, and may be feeling a little let down just now. Sorry, but it doesn’t always work out that way, though if anyone were to ask “So, Che, how was it for you?” I can safely reply “Great. It was really great.” I only hope that Therese’s memories of those few months are as fond as mine are; I do know that they will be very, very different.

What I can also say is that with age comes wisdom of a kind. Although I enjoyed telling that story, and I hope, you enjoyed reading it, what I now realise is that the story I really want to read is Therese’s story. As I never asked her a single question about herself, her life, her boyfriend, her family, her hopes and dreams and fears, I’ll never know if I was a revenge fuck, just one in a long series of flings, the one true love of her life, all of the above or none of the above.

If any of you talented lady posters wish to take up the challenge to tell “Therese’s Story”, then I for one would very much like to read it [are you there Chickenlady?].

…and now dear b3tans, I will roll away from this post, sweating, dripping and totally spent.
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 15:51, 20 replies)
B and the girl on the train
B was a little odd at times, but fundamentally a decent sort. One day, on the train between Brum and Smelly Oak, he noticed a girl with whom he immediately fell in love. She got off at the University stop.

B noted the time, bought flowers, and caught the same train the following day just in case she was on it again. She wasn't. His love remained unrequited, despite his doing the same the next day, and the one after that, and the one after that.

(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 15:48, 2 replies)
ex missus..
had a stalker at her work (bastard colleague perhaps?), who threatened to do me over. Trouble was he wanted to use the help of a friend of his.....who knew me, stupid cock!!!
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 15:46, Reply)
Facebook stalking
A few years ago I started dating this really nice man. If you've read any of my previous QOTW answers you'll know that my success with anything is fairly limited, but as far as relationships with the opposite sex go..well, lets just say I tend to pick the ones who are most likely to make my life uncomfortable, if not down right miserable.

SO, dating this guy, he's a few years older than me, he's kind and thoughtful, old fashioned - in as much as he wants to pay for dinner when he takes me out, he seems to think I'm fab, and I quite like him too. Everything is going swimmingly.

Cut to 6 months on. I am utterly, utterly, utterly bored out of my brains. This man can talk shit about nothing for HOURS. I have started drinking very heavily in order to get through our dates - without a glass of wine in my hand I am likely to sock him right in his never-ending-stories-about-nothing-spewing mouth. He has also starting showing a little streak of jealousy. Nothing major you understand, nothing to worry about, just a little pinched look around his mouth when I mention a male instructor at the gym, or a friends husband.

3 months on. I am almost permanently pissed. I have got the sign of stigmata on my palms from digging my nails into them whenever I'm with him. I'VE GOT TO FINISH THIS! But, my brain keeps telling me "he's nice, he's good for you, stick it out, it might be ok" and another half pint of vodka seems to do the trick. Of course, with all the drunkenness I'm not really noticing that his jealous streak has turned into more of a jealous chasm. I keep stumbling into this chasm; my crimes seem varied and intangible. Not replying to texts quickly enough, not putting enough kisses on texts, buying a new pair of jeans, being hungover, not wanting sex for the 7th time in one night etc, etc. Occasionally, I will get up on a Saturday morning to find an avalanche of texts from him demanding to know where I am (and as I'm tucked up in bed and fast asleep I have failed to respond in the correct time frame) and then escalating into strange threats that he "knows people" and I’d better "watch over your shoulder". Weird. He apologises profusely - swears it'll never happen again, but the trust is broken. We limp along for another couple of weeks until I log in to my facebook account to find all sorts of strange things on there. In my inbox there are emails read which I know I HAVEN'T read. My funwall seems odd as well - it all just feels a bit like someone has been rooting through it. I log into my hotmail account - again, emails that appear read have not been read by me. I ponder this strange set of affairs for quite a while, and then confront the boyfriend. He denies everything, but then asks me if I'm planning on "fucking the 25 year lad on your facebook profile, I notice you've been emailing him, and he gets 3 kisses at the end of the message, what do I fucking get?"


25 year old boy is my 2nd cousin. I do not play the banjo.

Long story short (It may be a bit late for that) he made my life very uncomfortable for quite a while. If I went out with my friends he always seemed to magically turn up 10 minutes later. He'd then stand at the bar, drink in hand, mouth working overtime, staring at me. *shudder*. The text messages went on for about 3 months, they veered from "sorry, I'm so sorry princess" to "you are a fucking whore, I knew it the first time I saw your filthy mouth" (!! quite sexy from the right person haha)

The last time I saw him I threatened him with the police. I don't think that was what stopped him though - the same night I saw him talking to a girl at the bar. She also appeared to have a whores mouth and a hint of vulnerability too. Poor cow.

Apologies for length - How did he know where I'd be?
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 15:44, 2 replies)
I'm stalking 'Swipe...
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 15:44, Reply)
It's normal teenage behaviour?
Like any teenager at school I took having a small (read massive) crush on someone to be a fully licenced opportunity to try and learn everything you can about them.

So there I was with an eye for a girl a couple of years below me who I knew nothing about really, just exchanged glances etc.

So I set about trying to find out a bit more, got her name, got her rough home location etc... then a bit of a surprise, I discovered she was stalking me.

She was playing the same strategy, hence walking a similar route home from school as me despite living nowhere near me etc.

We went out for a few weeks but like any school thing it wasn't gonna happen. :(

Essentially it went downhill after me being supertactful. I noticed when together (generally lunchtimes etc) that she never ate anything so instead of thinking about it I blurted out "What's wrong with you, you never eat! You must be bloody anorexic or something!". Turns out one reason I didn't know much about her was the fact she'd been off school for 6 months with anorexia. I'm a bright one me.
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 15:43, 1 reply)
i once stalked
the bedshitter's korean "popstar" of a girlfriend online.

by googling her and then voting her albums 1/10 so that noone bought them.

to be fair, that's not why noone bought them. they were sh1te.
(, Thu 31 Jan 2008, 15:42, 3 replies)

This question is now closed.

Pages: Latest, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, ... 4, 3, 2, 1