three times
all minute situations

its rather strange being bisexual, you know the feeling you get when you're with a girl and all of a sudden, every other girl seems to pop out of the woodwork, well I currently have a boyfriend and every girl in my college seems to suddenly start hitting on me...ok not every one...ok maybe 2, but thats not the point, same thing happens with guys when I'm with a girl, perhaps its just me.

anyway, there have been three incidents of a stalking variety recently, but nothing nearly as bad as the others I've read here

so to get this one off my chest, I'll start with my own slight stalking experience first,
My first grade crush, found her on facebook, and proceeded to 1. message her almost every day
2. try and convince my friend who goes to the same college to hook me up with her
I stopped as soon as I realized what I was doing, apologized, and promptly forgot about her.

the other two are being stalked by ex girlfriends, who won't leave me alone and try to get my friends to hook them up with me
Karma eh?
the sad part is, they might be rather nice, and if the situation was different, I would probably say yes, but I don't see my relationship now ending soon, and I don't particularly want it to, meh, perhaps a threesome

length? thats what they're after I assume
( Arsonade is saving up for a new box of hummus, Tue 5 Feb 2008, 0:41, 2 replies)

Agent Steve
Once upon a time, I was a naive fourteen year old. Myspace had just started, and I was one of the first to sign up. I, of course, thought I was unbelievably cool at finding it, and used it mostly to look at band's profiles.

Then, one day, I got a message from a guy in his late twenties to early thirties, saying he really loved my music taste. I was flattered as hell, because at fourteen getting any attention from anyone older than you is pretty unheard of (at least then.) So we sent quite a few messages, discussing the cure and such, and exchanging views. At the time I was very easy to win over - if you could type halfway coherently, I liked you, since aged fourteen everyone my age typed like they'd fallen face first onto a keyboard.

About a fortnight after we'd been messaging each other, he asked for my msn. I did stop and think then, but since this was in the day when people didn't really realise the dangers of kids + internet = bad things, I didn't think for too long. He seemed like a nice bloke, and I decided I could block him if he got annoying and/or creepy.

So we carried on talking for ages, then one day he announced that he was in a band and that he'd appreciate my opinion of it. Of course, I was a sucker for that, since the idea of anyone appreciating my musical taste aged fourteen was unheard of. I clicked on the link, and lo and behold, it was not a band's website. In fact it was a rather different type of website.

I freaked and asked him, trying to be calm, if he was sure that was the right link. Cue mister "I care about your musical opinion" turning into the biggest creep around, asking me about how it made me feel. I blocked him and deleted him from my friend's list on myspace.

Except it turns out people can have more than one email address? Who knew?!

He added me with about twenty of them, asking me for my address because he wanted to meet up with me, and he kept sending me stuff via myspace. I'd made the mistake of telling him my general location and I was scared as hell he'd find out where I lived and went to school, especially as my friend's myspaces weren't on private and they had our school info up. He followed me onto sites, and kept threatening to turn up on my doorstep, and generally followed me around the internet, tracking me via my username that I then used everywhere.

This went on for about another fortnight before I decided to get a photo of my brother who is seven years older than me and who had a beard, and changed the photos of a fourteen year old girl to one of a twenty one year old guy with a beard. I told him I'd been lying and that I was named Agent Steve with the FBI.

The idiot bought it and started apologising, saying he was only fourteen too, and that he'd lied about his age because he thought girls liked older guys.

Every time after that anyone tried perving on me via myspace, out came Agent Steve.
Worked a charm.

Length? I dunno, seems a bit of a personal question to ask someone from the FBI.
(stopmakingmeexplode, Tue 5 Feb 2008, 0:18, 7 replies)

No stalker...
Wouldn't mind a pretty female one for a bit though.
( SubCulture Hero ... ... He... .... Comes ... ...., Tue 5 Feb 2008, 0:07, Reply)

In a bizarre twist of fate that I wouldn't have believed had it not happened to a member of my own family...
...my uncle, from the post below, was stalked.

By a woman.

That he'd known from school.

After she found him on Friends Reunited.

After he'd realised that registering under a false name was silly and that no-one would find him and re-registering under his real name.

It was nothing too sinister, a couple of emails telling him how much she'd loved him but not had the nerve to tell him when they were at school together, then a couple of phone calls asking to meet up. He told her that he was married and not interested in meeting up, and after my aunt told her the same thing she stopped calling.

/wouldn't be interesting at all if not for the false-name thing
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 23:39, Reply)

My uncle registered on Friends Reunited a few years ago (as did the rest of the world, I seem to remember)
He was a bit worried about stalkers and suchlike though, so in a stroke of genius he registered under a false name, and sat back waiting for the people he'd known at school to get in touch.

Except that after a couple of weeks he realised that none of his friends from school would actually know it was him, so he registered again, with his real name this time.
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 23:34, Reply)

Ex boyf
I moved abroad with an ex boyf several years ago and after he changed personality over night, and I cheated on him, I walked out and moved back to England.

Our stuff was in storage together and the next thing i know he's upping the price i have to pay to get it all back, including turning up at my work and getting his mates to make threatening phone calls. in the end, i paid him two hundred quid and that was that. The Police weren't interested because apparently a man can't stalk a man. Meh. Useless wankers.
(badfox1 wonders who he's played by this episode on, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 22:50, Reply)

Mad Scouser
I'm a musician. A few years ago my old band were playing a big show supporting another, bigger band in Liverpool. After our set, I was sat on the merch table selling CDs and shirts, and ended up chatting to a nice lass for 10 minutes or so. She was about 18 or 19, very polite. That was that. 1 week later I get an email from said girl that opened "I enjoyed our time together so much, I can't wait until you meet my parents!" and went on to explain how she'd booked us both a holiday together in the south of France. I spent some time checking it hadn't been written by my drummer (funny chap) and then gingerly mailed back something along the lines of "Um.. what? No." This was followed by about 6 months of abusive emails telling me I was a "user".

My drummer suggested I should've tried to get the holiday without the girl. I'm not that evil, apparently.
(franktard, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 22:27, 1 reply)

Margerita the mad Russian
I am sitting home now and reading this question of the week that brings back the dark memories that manifest into the nightmare of Margerita.

Twas at me mate "wild eyed" Woodies 27th birthday i cast eyes upon and pulled the marvellous Margerita.

She was a vision of Russian beauty and we had a wild time from sipping red wine on the beach under the stars to dancing in the moonlight and kissing each other madly.

After the forth day things started to get weird, Margerita would talk for hours to her cat called james who i found out she thought was her dead husband, asking it for advice on her new love i.e me.

Next freak out for me was the fact anytime i tried to leave her flat either to go to work or the shop it would cause her to freak out and spew more bile than the girl from the exorcist.

I did the only thing a gentleman would do, i legged it.

I decided to stay at my parents for a couple of days to lick my wounds and somehow she found out where i was, whether she followed me or checked the electoral roll i do not know but suddenly flowers and chocolates were hanging from various external door handles and i was scared.

A few friends of mine in Spain talked me into going over there and i jumped at the chance, the thing is i was followed to the airport and the mad Russian caused a major scene involving armed police and her screaming i was the re-incarnation of her dead husband.

I spent weeks thinking i was going to wake up with her standing over me with a kitchen knife.

One thing i always thought was a female stalker would be sexy.

Believe me it is freaky.


Bunny boiled? I was eating rabbit stew for a year.
( Trollman, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 21:54, 4 replies)

....
First year of Postgrad I was still attempting to live the drunken lifestyle I'd lived as an undergrad. I regularly got trashed out of my mind, and in one of these states hooked up with a girl from a foreign country who was studying at our college.

At first she seemed to be hesitant, but soon seemed to warm to me, although sex was off the cards due to her catholicism (and, admittedly, probably due to my heavy drinking).

Anyway, we never really went out, just hooked up maybe 5 or 6 times when I was drunk. After a while I realised that this wasn't a good idea... she was becoming very clingy and frankly a little scary. I took her out for a drink and explained (in English and in Spanish) that we were just friends and that all this stuff had to stop. Seemed to go fine and I thought that life could continue with us just as friends.

Two days later she got drunk at a party, somehow forced her way into my house, and managed to pin me against the wall whilst trying to kiss me and groping me extensively (not a pleasant experience). I'm not a small guy, but by god she is strong. It took me 40 minutes to persuade her to leave. Cue second time explaining that we were just friends and that this has to stop.

Then she started calling, texting, emailing and msn'ing me all the time. I went out, she'd follow me. I'd go to the library, she'd sit next to me. I'd go to a party, she wouldn't leave me alone.

I explained to her another 5 times that we were just friends... it seemed to work, but every so often (about every 3 days it seemed) she'd massively come on to me. Then, as these things do, I started going out with another girl. I have never seen a more poisoned look from a human being than from my stalker to my new girlfriend... it was pure, utter hatred. She even managed to turn a few of my girlfriends friends against her.

Then, as these things do (again), my girlfriend went back to New York after her degree was over, and we broke up, and the stalker went back to her country.

Thats when the phone calls started. And the postcards. And the letters, emails, msns.

Then she turned up here for my birthday last year... and managed to grope me in the bar, then in the nightclub we went too afterwards.

I did what any reasonable person did... I ignored her as best I could for 10 months, until she came back here to do a PhD.

She seems to be OK now, it looks like she has got the message that I'm not interested, but every so often I see the glint in her I and I get scared. She also seems to want to know all the relationship I have with a friend of mine (who admittedly I have been after for a while). She asked me if we were going out, had we been going out, were we just having sex etc etc? (None of which is true, unfortunately).

So there you have it. I, at 6 foot 6, was held against a wall and groped by a girl. I don't think length even comes into it... it shrivels back up inside...
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 20:49, Reply)

je m'appelle Therese
i live in ... well ... it does not matter where i live. this year i shall be 53 years old. shit. okay. i live in a small town near bordeaux. during the day, i work in the magasin of a local vineyard. no one comes in winter. in summer we have english and germans buying our wine by the case. some is okay, some is not. we are not a grand cru of any classification. some is okay. i get a case a month to take home. i live alone. no man. no children. people ask me now why and i do not know what to say. sure, there were guys, but no marriage. when i was young, i had fun. the late '70s, a little drugs, le punk rock, paris, nothing serious. but then i stayed in that life. other girls from school, they married. weddings with the local priest in small towns, but not me. i kept living like i was still 19. maybe for too long. i remember even now the year i was 30: 1985. maybe it should have changed that year. i worked in a foyer, it was easy. be a friend for the kids, clean up a little, make sure things never got crazy. sometimes i was bored. sometime i liked it. i was old, but not too old. some of the kids i lived with were maybe 22, 23. one night i remember a girl saying, 'let's go to the cinema.' i had nothing to do. i went. she had this english guy with her. he was different to the french students i met. he made me laugh. the movie was his idea and it was some crazy english thing about fascists and plumbers and i do not know what. crazy. i did not have energy to concentrate so i looked at him sometimes. he made me laugh. he laughed when i did not expect. i laughed too but i do not think he saw.
it was 1985 and many people were worried about the cold war. reagan was elected again. madam thatcher was in england. they argued with the russians. i was 30 and i lived with kids who did not think they would be 40 because there would be a war. the english guy made me laugh. i thought, why not? i kissed him later, then we fucked. more than one time. sure, i had a boyfriend but it was not serious. we did not love. with the english guy it was also not love, but it was different. my first time with a foreign guy. different.
he went to london, but when he came back he was in love, for real, with an english woman. i did not know how i felt. we tried to fuck but it was not the same. he left. i never saw him again.
i stayed at that foyer for six years more, then i thought i was getting too old to talk to kids about drugs and flics. too old for paris maybe. i went to my small town near bordeaux. there were no interesting guys. maybe one or two, in time, but nothing true. i am okay now. i have my apartment and my work at the vineyard. sometimes i think of the english guy from '85. he was different.
( writerblock ... embedding disabled by request on, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 20:36, 10 replies)

I have been stalker and stalkee.
Stalkee: I used to work in a pub in the evenings and one of the regulars took a bit of a shine to me. One night he followed me home. I was rather suprised to see him on my doorstep with a bottle of warm Liebfraumilch in one and and three Ferrero Rocher in the other. I am a bit of a wine and chocolate buff and he thought he was doing realy well. Bless him, he tried.

Stalker: When I split up with my husband a few years ago, I was fairly convinced he was seeing someone else. I found his internet banking password, went into his account and saw he had bought flowers and theatre tickets. OK, I thought, he's definitely seeing someone else.On the spur of the moment I rang the theatre and started crying, saying my card had been stolen and the Police weren't helping. I gave them his account number and they checked their computer and told me what play the tickets had been bought for. It was a panto- he had bought them for his niece. Did I feel like a heel? Yes.

His bank rang him and reported the unusal activity on his internet banking. He worked out it was me and luckily didn't report me. Oh and I found out he had bought the flowers for him mum.

Doh.
( t0ria has forgotten how this all works, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 20:35, 1 reply)

I almost forgot this fucker
He was a friend of a friend. About 5ft tall, 19 stone, balding and all of about 23. Had a huge shitty Slipknot tattoo and a heartagram somwhere on his arm. Drove a fucking Nova with a shitty yellow bodykit, two exhausts too many and racing seatbelts. Anyway...

He started talking to me when my mate was with her boyfriend, and I politely made conversation. There ended up being a party at his flat, somewhere in the middle of Chaville and playing music along the lines of Limp Bizkit, Papa Roach and all things shite. There were two rooms in this flat, so whilst my mates were shagging, I was on the floor in his room, asleep.

The next morning my mate comes in and for some reason, sees two 'used' (see blown up and deflated) condoms on the dresser next to him, and him in his boxer shorts (urgh). She laughs, and we get the fuck out of there. Of course, we had no way home except in his shitty Nova.

After that, I kept getting texts off him (god knows how he got my number) asking me to go to x club with him, whether I'm going to club Y 'cos I'll be there too' and whether I want to spend the night at his. He told all the people at one of the clubs (rock community etc) that we were going out, which led me to be interrogated by random people and kept winking at me in clubs.
I pretty much told him where to go after a while, and then I started seeing his Nova EVERYWERE, with him behind the wheel scowling at me. Seriously, it was like twice a day sometimes, and we lived at least 5 miles away from each other. He'd park outside my mum's house, leaving her worried, and he'd drop call me all the time.

In the end, my then boyfriend pulled him up and told him he'd stab him if he went near me again. I've not clapped eyes on him since, thank god.
( Methylene Blue - electrohead, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 20:18, Reply)

Therese's Version - the reply to Che Grimsdale
This is not strictly speaking a Stalker story, more perhaps about someone wanting control. It is entirely fictional and has been written on request as a reply to Che Grimsdale's (true) story which appears on page 1. So for that reason if you prefer to read only true stories avoid this as I can't be bothered to deal with the flaming!


I will also point out that a number of terms have been included on the request of various people...and therefore this is an erotic story - those of you of a nervous disposition may want to skip it or leave it until you get home....


*******************

I was thirty and I know I should have known better. I was bored with my life – when I was a student I had started dating my tutor, he was twenty years older than me, smoked Gitanes and we discussed Sartre in pavement cafes. I moved into his apartment in the 18th arrondissement -quiet during the day when he liked to write and surrounded by strip joints at night. At first we would wander around at night laughing at the painted ladies and then before the English boy came we would go into the dark dingy clubs and watch the ‘live’ shows – anything to excite my boyfriend’s jaded passion.

I completed my studies and began to work as a research assistant at the Sorbonne during the day and sometimes at night I got work as a warden at a Foyer. The work at the Foyer was fun – I got to hang out with some of the students I knew from the Sorbonne and others who, like me, just wanted to live – drink espresso, smoke and talk about the argument between Sartre and Merleau-Ponty, dance, roll into bed with each other and watch Tarkovsky films. My boyfriend encouraged me to find other bedmates – “Therese, you are young and firm, go enjoy it while it lasts”

That weekend, the weekend it all began and ended I was working on the Saturday afternoon at the Foyer. I’d left the apartment where my aging boyfriend had sat gazing out of the window looking over the roofs to the Sacré-Coeur. Through a haze of Gitanes he shook his head and told me I tasted of the sea.

When I arrived the usual crowd were hanging out, I wandered over and said hello. One of the girls, Nass, had a boy with her – he wasn’t dressed like the other boys there and his accent was a little strange – English I thought. He had dark hair that trailed into his brown eyes and he was beautiful in the way that only boys on the brink of manhood can be. I think he was around twenty. Smooth skinned and soft-featured – untouched yet by the harsh realities of life – he hadn’t yet been disappointed or left broken-hearted by a feckless lover. He and Nass had an easy way with each other – they touched and smiled a great deal – he had come to see her. The rest of the crowd were faceless. All I could see was this beautiful boy and Nass. He got up and wandered off for a few moments, I took my opportunity to speak to her. “Qu’est-ce qui se passe entre vous deux?”
“Rien”
They were friends. “Is it okay if I….He’s…..” I felt the blush creep up my face – my cool exterior warmed with my desire for her beautiful boy. She laughed, “Of course. He’ll have good memories of Paris.” So it was organised.

We went to the cinema – I don’t remember the film we saw, only that I sat next to him. I brushed my hand against his leg. I brushed my hand against his arm. I looked at him in the flickering light from the giant screen. He was beautiful.

We went back to my room at the Foyer. The others quickly left us. He was innocent, even a little gauche. For the first time I was in charge. I was making all the moves. He was my prey. I trailed my fingertips along his arm and then leant in to brush my lips against his. At first his kisses were gentle like blossom petals falling on my lips, then as the small room with its constant traffic of kids outside began to fade and the crumpled bed became our only world, so our kisses became deeper, wetter, feverish. His mouth moved to my neck, I gasped. His hand slid to my breast, I arched my back and whispered to him “I want you now.” I pulled away, stood up and peeled my t-shirt off – his breathing was ragged. He tugged at his jeans, his t-shirt, boots, socks until he lay on my bed smooth skinned and bare – skin pale and creamy as warm milk, chest hairless until his belly where a dark line began and led to the dark thatch where his cock stood waiting, twitching, for my wetness. Hunger. He stood and went to help me remove my trousers, I stepped back, not allowing him to touch me. I slipped the trousers down my thighs and stepped out of them and my silk panties. I ran one finger down his smooth torso and along the length of his rigid cock – he shivered. I knelt on the edge of the bed and flicked my tongue over the pink glistening head of his throbbing member. It was his turn to gasp. Slowly I leaned back, my feet tucked under me, my knees wide and my wet pussy open, ready. He looked a little fearful, unsure of himself. I sucked my finger and then slipped it down between my moist lips, holding them open, playing with myself for him to see.

For too long I had suffered an aging man with a soft, skinny dick and belly that simply heaved and puffed over me, working himself into a slimy sweat while I tried so hard to even feel turned on by him. Now I had a hard young body, a beautiful boy who fucked fast and furiously and did exactly as I told him – he was my ingénue.

That night I made love to him again and again – at last a man who could satisfy me and keep up with me. The following day I took him to a little hotel near the Pompidou centre where the room smelled of cheap sex and cigarettes. I rode him until he was spent then I ordered him onto his knees and he lapped at our juices as they trickled out from my swollen pussy.

Afterwards I bought him coffee and pain au chocolat as I smoked Gitanes and under the table rubbed his cock back to life through his jeans. He followed me through the streets and I pulled him into darkened doorways where I pushed his hand under my skirt and between my legs so he could feel my wetness, then I sucked his fingers yet would not touch his throbbing hardness in return. On the metro as I took him back to the Foyer I slid my hand down between us in the crush and caressed his growing erection – I thought he might come there and then in the crowd in front of the Parisian businessmen returning to their wives in the suburbs with the taste of their mistresses in their mouths.

He was mine, utterly mine.

He returned to England for a few weeks but he could not bear to be parted from me – his cock needed to return to its natural home in the moist cleft between my legs. We made plans to go to Berlin together later in the summer – my boyfriend would be teaching summer school to dull French peasants and I would be bored, my pussy dried up and sulking because of its enforced diet of soft, white, gelatinous old man. I needed the oasis of a hot spunking young cock that my beautiful English boy would give me as he plunged into me again and again.

But then he came to see me – I took a room again in the same little hotel and rode him hard amongst the ghosts of Gauloise, Gitanes, sweat and sex left behind by a hundred other young lovers. As we lay on the sagging bed he traced rings around my nipples and stared intently at my heaving breasts as he spoke to me, “Therese, I can’t go with you to Berlin. There is someone else….a girl….in England”
I replied with a kiss, “Come back and see me when you are married and ready for your first mistress just like all good Frenchmen.” The boy was English to the last – he shook his head sadly and told me about his love for this warrior princess he had found in England and how his heart would always be hers. “But my beautiful boy, I don’t want your heart.” He shook his head again,
“I’m hers now.”


I continued to work at the Foyer at weekends or between academic jobs, I left my boyfriend and went through a series of hard young men. All were French: the English were too difficult for me to understand. The coolness, the English Stiff Upper Lip - it hides their true nature – that of passion and a hard rawness. At least with the French I knew what to expect – they would marry a good Catholic girl from the countryside who would bear them children and they would return to me in the city and we would drink wine, discuss philosophy and fuck in a haze of cigarette smoke and expensive perfume. Love would not come into it.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 19:39, 15 replies)

Stalkers. The reason we have locks on our doors.
Two examples strongly spring to mind, though nowhere near as frightening as some of the Specimens already written about on here.

1st was when I was maybe 20, knew her vaguely from primary school, briefly bumped into her at a club and agreed to meet up another time to catch up. Literally from that meeting she assumed we were in a serious relationship. And we certainly weren’t. Referred to my mum like she was her best friend, talked to me like we had been married ten years. It got really confusing. I began to relate to those people that awake from long comas with no recollection of their loved ones, was I missing something?

Then it got creepy. Subtle stuff at first, aside from the excessive phone calls and turning up on the doorstep saying she was “just passing”, when my parents lived out in the serious sticks. Comments like “I don’t think I could live my life without you in it” and “if anything happened to you, part of me would die too”.

I had more alarms going off than ADT. Went round hers, sat her down and told her firmly but fairly to keep away from me. She threatened to commit suicide, and even offered to show me her collection of tablets. Told her to grow up and I drove home.

Two hours later I get a call from the hospital, from some nurse gently telling me my “ your girlfriend just wants you to know she loves you ”. Nutty tart went through with it, but called for an ambulance just before she started gargling. They pumped her stomach, and carted her off to the “specialists”. 15 years later she tagged me on Facebook, strangely I’m keeping my distance.

The 2nd was far more equipped to deliver the scare factor. Had an on/off relationship with her spanning four or five years. What made her so scary was her resourcefulness. Was like I had just split from a loopy Lara Croft. During our “off” period she hacked into my home PC remotely to see who I was talking to. She did a stakeout at the airport at the end of my holiday so she could see whom collects me, then followed my taxi home so obviously that even the taxi driver began to shed a concern and glue his eyes to his rear-view n wings.

Her coup-de-grace consisted of breaking into my apartment after I had changed the locks with no sign of forced entry, and left “our song” playing on a loop on my stereo. What made that more disturbing, was the CD must have heated up or got scratched so poor old Bryan Adams got stuck on the same creepy lyric “Well we wont come down tonight, Well we wont come down tonight,” Made my blood freeze, I searched and cleared my home like the SAS, thinking she was still there, holed up in my airing cupboard waiting to jump out like Begbie from Trainspotting or something. When I shakily rang her to threaten authorities, padded cells, Texas style home protection. She honestly thought her actions were the most romantic of gestures and even suggested I was over-reacting. You know when you start asking yourself “ What the F**k is she gonna do next” that things have gone off the bright, sunny track that the relationship started on.

In fact just thinking about these two makes me pull the duvet covers under my chin.

Length? Well with one it never even got that far, and the 2nd clearly went to some extra-ordinary ones.
(Eeeza bit Tidy A blink, a pause, a blush and then I knew., Mon 4 Feb 2008, 18:11, 2 replies)

Cheeky girls
How would you kill them
(The Hooded Bean is in my pants Can't resist a Fanny/Tranny Joke, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 18:03, 7 replies)

Sometimes, when I was really stoned driving home,
I used to think that every car behind me was a police car.
( Mr Jamie, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 17:37, 7 replies)

I had a conversation recently with a girl I was seeing...
She said: "I don't think I'm a proper girl."
Bemused, for I knew that she most certainly was, I asked why not.
She replied: "I've never once logged into your facebook account or emails and gone through them, and I never steal your phone or read your messages."
I said: "Well, that's good, I'd probably break up with you if you did that. That's like reading someone's diary, it betrays a complete lack of trust. Why would you think to do that?"
And she said: "I was out with the girls the other night, and they were talking about their boyfriends and how they regularly go through their messages to check up on them."

Tbh I'm just glad she found it as creepy as I did, 'cause for those two weeks we were sharing my laptop and it would have been easy for her to access my accounts and "check up" on me...not that I've got anything worth hiding there anyway. Of course I could have easily read all her mails and messages too, but what's the point? Why go looking for trouble?
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 16:16, 11 replies)

Stalked by text
Some of the tales this week are downright disturbing. So I’ll lighten the tone a little.

A few years ago, when I was still single (well, actually, I was technically still married, but the wife had decided she didn’t want to be a wife anymore - not to me , anyway), I met a girl on a works leaving do – she was a former employee who had left not long before I started. We got on well, but she declined my offer of a date on the not altogether unreasonable basis that she had a girlfriend. Not to worry, we enjoyed each other’s company and would occasionally meet up for a drink. She was good company, so it seemed churlish to let a small technicality like not batting for the same teams get in the way.

On one occasion, we were having a few drinks after work, but I was constantly being bombarded with text messages from an unknown number. ‘Fancy a drink sometime’? ‘Er, depends. Who is this’? ‘Guess’. Etc. now, I don’t do cryptic, but this went on all night, and for a few days afterwards, to the point where I started to get a bit pissed off, and also slightly concerned that someone who I didn’t appear to know had my number and was admiring me from afar. I was still in a period of mental-wobble at this time, so I didn’t really appreciate being the target of some random stranger’s unhealthy obsession.

By about day 5 of this, I’d had enough, so when the usual cryptic messages started coming through again, I snapped. ‘Just tell me who you are and stop pissing about’. So they did.

Turned out it was someone I knew, but wasn’t someone I’d particularly want to associate with in a social context. She was a bit of a troll really, with a nasty split personality and had made life really difficult for one of the lads in the dive club, to the point where we had to throw her out of the club for being unhealthily obsessed with him. This despite the fact that he had a steady girlfriend, and she had been shacked up with her bloke for some time. So I declined her ‘offer’ and off she fucked, thank god. I may have been out of action (so to put it) for a while, but I wasn’t that desperate!

A vaguely amusing and ironic end to this is that the troll in question turned into a lesbian, and my friend shacked up with a postman not too long afterwards and is now the proud mum of a bouncing baby boy.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Mon 4 Feb 2008, 15:06, 4 replies)

Was I a stalker?
I used to walk past the same bloke every day on my way to work, did so for weeks, and we had got to the point of smiling while walking past each other (no alterior motive on my part it just seemed stupid to ignore him), then on to a small nod of greeting. One morning however I tried to break down a barrier....I spoke ....shock horror.
I never saw him again and I always wonder if he thought I was stalking him.
(cmouse is pondering about life in other jobs, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 14:36, 7 replies)

...
I guess after reading everyone elses stories im plucking up the courage to tell mine. It happened a few years back when i was about 19. I had joined a chat room and was getting on fairly well with the small community. All were older than me by at least 8-10 years so it was filling a small family gap missing in my life.

One guy, im going to call him Al, as im too frightened he might find me again, made a move on me at a party we had all gotten together for. I made it quite clear that i wasnt that sort of girl and i was wayyyy to young for him to be even thinking about. ANyway what followed for the next 9 months was the worst tie in my life. He would text me, right me letters, email me, get me on msn. His ploy was to tell me what an utter usles waste of space and air i was. How much my family hated me and i should just die because nobody cared. Now i wasnt one to take this seriously but he so bombared me with this kind of talk for so long with no one the wiser to it going on that i eventually tried to do away with myself.

Eventually i changed all my computer names, burnt the mail, ignore the phone and he stopped. But not before that man had taken every shred of dignity and self esteem i had. I became agoraphobic for many years after, and completley cut myself off for years from anyone but my family. I look back and i still cant laugh at it, i never will. He was pure evil. Ive got some of my life back now but i have few social skills and the only thing i trust now is my cat Mooks.

So if you ever do read this i know you wont know its you but i hope that someday everything you believe in will be taken from you and every shread of self will be mutilated and burnt. you son of a bitch i hope you die in a dark hole with no one to care and a homless man pissing on your withering body.


Sorry for the seriousness folks but i had to get that off my chest... As for the length, how about pert boobs instead??
(Serbitar Has a furry shit canon called Whitey., Mon 4 Feb 2008, 14:26, 8 replies)

The Reason Why I Moved Away From London
Warning - Severe Lack of Funny!

Once upon a time young Mogg lived and worked in the great city of London, and as such had to endure the hell of the daily commute on the tube.

One evening I stayed at work a bit later as the tubes were shot to hell more than usual and I wanted to miss the rush. Didn't work though, and I finally admitted defeat and squeezed onto a packed tubetrain.

It was as the train was plodding along slowly that I felt someone pressing themselves against me....pressing a certain part of themselves against me, and I had no doubts exactly what part it was. I took a step to one side to move away, and a moment later the man was back. Tried again, and the same thing happened.

Now people I have spoken to about this since have said "Why didn't you break his nose!?", "Why didn't you shout?" and I know this sounds weird...but I was embarrased. I couldn't bring myself to shout or do anything because I didn't want people to notice me, to think I was some hysterical woman making trouble. The gentleman in question was Asian, and this was virtually 2 weeks after the bomb attacks. If I had started hitting and screaming, pandemonium would have ensued! I made eye contact with one woman, and she knew what was going on. The look of pure pity! I just closed my eyes and willed the train to hurry up to the next stop.

So anyways at the next stop I jump out to wait for the next train. I stood at the platform, the train I had been on left, and I turned around and there he was staring at me. A another train came, and I didn't get on. Lo and behold, neither did he.

Decided then I'd get a bus (no idea why!) so I left the station, but as I got outside I realised I had no idea which bus would get me home, or indeed which direction I needed to go. I started walking down the road, and looked over my shoulder. He was following me again, but this time grinning. I stopped outside a big shop and phoned my boyfriend, who told me to get into the shop and tell someone in there. As I was on the phone I looked back again and he was leaning against the wall watching me. I went into the shop, but seeing no one around, I went back outside and ran back to the tube station.

All through this I had managed to keep relatively calm, but once I got back I went up to one of the tube staff and as soon as I opened my mouth to ask for help I burst into tears. Managed to tell him what happened and he took me to one side so I could calm down. Just then, luckily, two undercover policemen came along. Ticket man asked if they could take me home, and they duly agreed and escorted me on the tube the rest of the way home (took me back on the tube to see if I could spot him again and point him out)

In the end the police took statements and looked back at the CCTV footage, but nothing ever came of it. The cameras were dirty so they couldn't see anything which was nice. So I did the next best thing - I moved to the country and haven't looked back since! Cramped in a poxy train carriage with some blokes erection nudging for attention in your lower back, or singing away in your car alone driving through the most beautiful scenery around! Hmmm!

In closing, I want to say to all the lovely ladies DON'T BE AFRAID TO SCREAM!!! Scream until you're sick, kick and punch, do whatever you have to do to make these sicko's leave you alone.

Also - This is not an uncommon occurance. When I was giving my statement I was told about a WPC who had it done to her, and even she was too frightened to do anything. Just about every female I spoke to in London about it either experienced it themselves or knew someone who did. The sad thing is, I only know of one person who fought back. My mums friend had it happen to her and did actually break the bastards nose. She got a round of applause on the train :)


(This was actually the second time it had happened, but the first time I was followed off the train)

Length? Long enough for me to know it was there...
(Mogg Questioned her own sanity on, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 13:48, 8 replies)

nutella
On the first day after the cold winter, as I felt the sun make me lithe in my skin, it started. Some graffiti on the wall by my flat. “My name” it said. It just said “My name” and when, a couple of days later she wrote her name underneath it, I viewed it with a mixture of boredom and resignation. “Oh, her” I thought, more interested in my hangover, and how the sun flecked through my fringe. A sigh between the steps on the way out in the mornings. Restless, the gifts arrived. The letters under the front door at midnight, the presents left with the concierge with the awkward smile. Whisky, gin, vodka, cigars, a video cassette, a book, some paper flecked dark red, and some photographs she’d hopefully developed herself. I drank what I could, and I burnt the unopened letters with the cigars.

Then my mother, so far away that the sky above us had different star flecked nights, started getting phone calls. She was bemused – from a telephone exchange on the hot, dusty city, the voice pulsed its way to her receiver, where she would listen as she watched Corrie as the rain fell angry on the window.

“He’s not worth it, dear” she said she said. And I didn’t blame her. For a start she was right.

The woman sat right in front of my desk and every time I tried to joke about the Present Perfect she would open her legs. As the other students talked about the people they’d scammed or the exams they’d failed, she’d look at me and just for a second, just for a second, I would think about losing myself in her soft brown eyes, or in the softness between the legs. But then I would think about the graffiti, and the letters and the presents and I would put “must try harder” on her flawless homework.

Her skirt got shorter and the space behind her eyes got blacker, but the sun withered my concern to scorn. The graffiti on the wall got bigger, and cruder and one day she wrote that she loved me with lipstick on my windows. The neighbours talked, probably, but I wouldn’t have understood them.

The presents got more elaborate – a pen with a gold nib, a cat, a lock of her hair. Sometimes, as I stared at the dirt on the ceilings, lying to myself in my dirty bed, I would think of calling her, of starting it. But I never did.

When I told her I was leaving the country, she told me she would cut her throat if I did. I tried to doubt her. The night before I left, Kev got a phone call. Kev said it was her brother, and that, basically, I was dead. The way he didn’t smile made me think I’d taken too much speed. That’s how I came to be hiding in the bushes in the garden of the restaurant opposite my flat at 4am, waiting for the taxi to the airport with my bags hidden behind the car parked crazily up the road. Everytime I heard a car, I didn’t know whether to jump out and hope it was the taxi, or hide further hoping I didn’t end up cleavered in the street. A car did pull up and a man I did not recognise did get out and he went up the steps, past the graffiti into my flat. The taxi came and I was gone before he came out. And, as I never spoke to Kev again, I never did find out whether it was her brother. But my mother got no more phone calls.
(sirolimus, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 13:10, 10 replies)

Speaking of stalking...
It turns out that the hotel next to my office in London is where the England Rugby team stays before their Twickenham matches. I think I'm going to be spending quite a few friday lunchtimes and post-work drinks in that hotel bar...
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 11:41, 1 reply)

yes
i was a lad of 18, she was a 34 year old psycho. i had been seeing her for a month and as it was going nowhere i decided to call it a day. this was a huge mistake, i should really have gone of to my nearest canoe shop and then down to the seaside 'never to return' because the next 9 months or so were utter hell, 6+ phone calls a day, a pregnancy scare/threat, appearances at my work, letters, police called, call's traced, the works.
and i dont mind admitting that it truly scared the living piss out of me, it scares me even now, eleven years on.
a couple of mates and my dad still tease me about it but i can assure you that it was by no means funny.

length? i think it may have had something to do with it.
(incredible wrongun, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 9:51, Reply)

Man Meets Girl
Man marries girl, buys house with/for girl, has 2 children with girl, spends 16 years with girl, gets bored, kicks girl+kids out of house, sells house, sells girls life insurance (despite the fact that girl has breast cancer), buys new house 100 odd miles away, leaves girl+ kids with nothing and goes on holiday for a month while new house under construction.

Girl obsesses over man, goes slightly insane, has breasts removed (on account of the cancer) and descends into deep depression. Kids have to change to crappy state school, grades suffer, kids start to disappear for days at a time and are frequently discovered unconscious in fields with empty vodka bottles.

Construction of new house completed. Girl+kids moves in (!?!), girl changes entire decorating plan and pretends nothing ever happened.

Man arrives at new home, discovers girl, charges of assault and GBH ensue and man winds up in jail.

And they all lived happily ever after… no, wait--
(ShitBitch, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 9:48, 3 replies)