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This is a question Trapped!

Pig Bodine asks: Where have you got stuck, trapped or tangled?

(, Fri 28 Feb 2014, 12:09)
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Last drinks?
A bit feeble, a bit long, but true.

Many, many years ago, (again in Hobart), my good friend John rented a flat above a rather posh delicatessen. It was a rather old building, with massive floor to ceiling windows, a rather wild 70’s décor makeover (think swirly wallpaper, burnt orange colour scheme), and long red velvet curtains on all the windows.

He shared this flat with his girlfriend Amy, and a couple of other chicks. As a youth, John was a brilliant athlete. He had represented our fine country in two sports (middle distance running, and field hockey), but he was a borderline alcoholic. He had ruined any chance of future national selection because he just loved to drink. After a while he could no longer rely on natural talent to get selected and in hindsight, he was just too young and too invincible to see what was happening.

Anyways, one fine evening, I had invited myself around to John’s flat, we had cooked up a good feast on the BBQ and I’d purchased a couple of cartons of nice cold beer to see us through the night. It was an unusual balmy evening for Hobart, so we had pulled aside the long velvet curtains and were happily sitting on the window sill, legs dangling outside, one floor up, music blaring, watching the evening traffic pass along Elizabeth Street, drinking beer, taking turns to see who could gob the furthest, and well, being a bit yobby about it all.

We had the flat to ourselves, as Amy and the other chicks were out on the town. Just two blokes, getting blind, talking shit, taking turns to grab another beer from the fridge, and generally, being a bit Neanderthal.

Inevitably, the beer started to have its effect, and I was busting for a piss. John must have been in a similar predicament too, but rather than hop back inside and make his way to the loo, he stood up on the window sill and let forth a mighty stream of beery piss into the street below.

Now this didn’t really surprise me at all, as I have lived with John and have witnessed him pissing down a flight of stairs simply to annoy everyone in the loungeroom below (it worked), trying to piss out of his bedroom window while blind drunk, but forgetting the window was head high, so only succeeding in showering himself in beery urine as it ricocheted violently off the wall, and, laying a massive vomit in a crowded bar, only to wipe his mouth, laugh, take advantage of the quickly parting crowd to make his way to the head of the queue at the bar and order another beer.

It would be an understatement to say that he lost all inhibitions when on the grog. I suppose I wasn’t really much better at that age.

Yeah well, anyway, his flat was above a rather posh delicatessen, and the owners of the delicatessen has installed some rather twee green and white canvas awnings above their shop windows, which were directly below us, so the flow of beery piss made a rather satisfying thrumming noise as it cascaded off the awning, and spattered all over the pavement.

So now the standard had been set. No more civilised visits to the loo, the seal had been well and truly broken. In-between visits to the fridge, and changes of music, either one of us would stagger to our feet, sway uncertainly in the window frame and release a hissing torrent of fetid liquid onto the awning below and admire the dispersion effect as it sprayed all over the pavement, giggling at the debauchery of it all. Nice.

After quite a few more beers, John turned on the telly, slumped into an armchair and slowly dozed off. I was content to sit in the window, finish off my last beer and consider dialing a taxi to take me home. While in thought, I struggled to my feet, unleashed another foul torrent of piss onto the awning, only to hear a chorus of voices objecting violently from the pavement below. I sniggered drunkenly to myself, thinking what a foul joke it must be, to be showered in beery piss from above.

But shit! Hang on, what was that noise, a key scraping in the front door? Angry voices coming down the hallway?…oh fuckity fuck! Jesus Christ, of course! Ken, you fucking moron, other people lived here. Oh. Fuck. I have just sprayed beery piss all over Amy and the girls as they were walking home! Fuck, I’m about to be revealed as the absolute animal I’ve become, in the company of this…this…this fucking career piss head.

I quickly draw the curtains to hide my shame, my pants are around my ankles, I try to haul them up before Amy busts in, but well…ultra-fucking hell…before I have time to blearily react, the door is flung open. From behind the curtain, I hear three very fucking angry girls swearing and hitting John, as he groggily flails around, trying to make sense of what’s happening.

After a minute, I realise they don’t know I’m in the room too, hiding behind the curtain, cock hanging out, piss spattered shoes, listening to the hiding they are dishing out to John. Jesus, this is just fucked up. If they go to close the window, they’ll find me, if I burp, fart, cough, need another piss, they’ll find me. Fuck.

I was presumed to have gone home, and John copped all the blame, which given his previous form, was hard to defend. John told them all to get to fuck, the girls harrumphed at him, everyone had some more drinks, argued and swore.

You know those rare moments in life, when you have a clear, cold, creeping realisation that really, you’re just gone a bit too far? Things were funny, being naughty was cool, but now it’s suddenly got all serious? You just want to be somewhere else, be a nicer, better person?

Well…for the next hour (at least it felt like that), I hid behind that fucking curtain, mere feet away from the others, bladder straining, daring not to breathe, while John protested his innocence, and the girls kicked up a stink.

Any minute, I expected to be revealed, pants around ankles, weakly smiling, maybe waving a feeble “hello”, to be always held in contempt for pissing on people.

Finally, Sweet Jesus…finally, they all went to bed. I crept out from behind the curtain, stole outside, across the piss soaked pavement and stumbled home, vowing never, ever to drink with John again.

Well, until the next weekend, that is.
(, Sun 9 Mar 2014, 12:25, 16 replies)

Years later, I attended John's wedding, totally mis-read the vibe, got horribly drunk, made a total arse of myself, so in effect, delivered my own comeuppance. I haven't contacted him since.
(, Sun 9 Mar 2014, 12:47, closed)
Long story short
you pissed in someone else's mouth
(, Sun 9 Mar 2014, 12:49, closed)

yeah, I suppose so. Kind of makes me feel better, when you put it like that.
(, Sun 9 Mar 2014, 12:53, closed)
A few years back
I was going out with a girl who was tremendously filthy, but was also in RAF training. She'd swallowed the propaganda entirely, to the extent that when we walked past a Lib Dem election poster she hissed at it and angrily explained how they wanted to cut military funding. Our politics did not match.

Anyway, I went to a formal meal at her RAF base and it was quite an eye-opener. A bunch of otherwise intelligent people wearing ludicrously elaborate formal dress and making the sort of anti-foreigner statements that I'd previously assumed only belonged to Jeremy Kyle contestants.

I met a girl there who was closer to my views than any of the others (she'd come as her friend's +1), and we hit it off quite well. She had a guest room in the barracks and as we were quite drunk it didn't take long before we decided we should slope off for a sneaky shag.

In her room and we're both standing up against the wall, she's topless and I'm entirely naked by this point, and there's an angry-sounding barrage of knocks on the door. OH FUCK, the missus has come looking for me, and all of her friends are here, and all of her friends are psychotic paras.

So I scrambled trying to hide myself, first diving under the duvet but Rachel made it clear that this was not a good disguise. Being a military base there were not such things as en-suites or walk-in wardrobes, in fact the room was entirely square with nowhere to hide.

In a flash of inspiration, I realised that the window sill was about 18 inches wide, so I leapt up behind the curtain and stood there as Rachel answered the door.

"No, I haven't seen him, I was just getting changed", I heard as I cowered three feet up on the window sill.

Satisfied that I wasn't there, my midget right-winger fucked off.

Much to my distress, this had put Rachel out of the mood and so she suggested I get dressed. This I did, then I went out of a random door onto the base. I wandered about for a bit and then returned nonchalantly to the feast room. Laura the miniature racist asked me where the fuck I'd been, and I entirely got away with telling her that as a drunken person, I had wanted to get some fresh air.

Never did fuck Rachel though. :-(
(, Sun 9 Mar 2014, 14:01, closed)
so your story is that you go out with thick people and are crap at cheating on them

(, Sun 9 Mar 2014, 14:14, closed)
That was a pretty successful cheating
(, Sun 9 Mar 2014, 14:32, closed)
Doesn't successful cheating entail actually cheating
not just getting a bit of tit and then running away?

I'm a bit out if practice like.
(, Sun 9 Mar 2014, 14:43, closed)
Not getting caught
= success I reckon
(, Sun 9 Mar 2014, 16:46, closed)
I successfully robbed a bank.
Fucked up and didn't get any money like ... but I didn't get caught either.
(, Sun 9 Mar 2014, 16:50, closed)
hmm, the whole
"I didn't finger that dog, I just dipped the tip in" defence
(, Mon 10 Mar 2014, 11:55, closed)
^Terrible bullying of the mods

(, Mon 10 Mar 2014, 11:58, closed)

"A bit of tit" ...made me laugh.
(, Sun 9 Mar 2014, 23:45, closed)
Now, I'm new as fuck 'round 'ere, so...
utterly ignore every drivel of yak scat that trickles from betwixt my teeth, but...
Needs more:
"Vowing never to drink with John again (till the next time), as I passed the delicatessen downstairs, I glanced up one last time at the fateful flat just in time for a last dribble of my piss to trickle off the defiled awning and into my own mouth."
Amirite? Too predictable?
Actually, what the fuck do I know.
"fucking career piss head" = click
(, Sun 9 Mar 2014, 16:28, closed)
Shut up.

(, Sun 9 Mar 2014, 16:39, closed)
Pucker up.

(, Sun 9 Mar 2014, 17:23, closed)

(, Sun 9 Mar 2014, 17:24, closed)

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