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This is a question Unexpected Nudity

There you are minding your own business, looking neither to the left, nor to the right, when suddenly... SURPRISE TODGER!

Tell us just how un-erotic unexpected encounters with nudey people can be.

(suggested by wanderingjoe)

(, Thu 28 May 2009, 13:32)
Pages: Latest, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Why I can never go back to Sweden

I'm married to a Swede. The blond type, not the root vegetable kind (although tubers possible have a better sense of humour than your average scando), anyway.

A few years ago we went to the wedding of one of her best friends, she was marrying a Finnish banker and the wedding was held in a castle on its own island just of the coast of Sweden. The best bit was we were going to be staying in the castle that night. The wedding itself was beautiful and touching and all he things you expect from the wedding. The evening was drunken, and carnage and all the things you would expect from the Finns. At one point I joined the semi naked father of the groom and his friends in attempting to swim back to shore to conquer "the bastard Swedes". That however is not the tale of nudity you're looking for.

You see, this is the tale of the furious incident of the tick in the night time.

In Sweden they have these tick things; they bury their head under your skin, releasing a local anesthetic and gorge on your blood. They are relatively common (especially on pets) and there is a simple knack of grabbing the body, twisting the head in a certain direction and pulling them out. If you pull it out wrong, the head snaps off and continues to burrow in causing massive infection. There are horror stories of people losing feet because of an infected bite.

But anyway, there we are, we've checked into our room in the castle, and my mother in law and her friend have come along for a nosy, they know the bride and want to pass on their best, as well as having a good poke around the castle. A long poke that seems to involve tea and sitting chatting, in my bloody room while I'm trying to get changed.

"I'll just pop into the loo shall I?"


Leaving them to it I wander into the bathroom, pull off my clothes, pull out my emergency beer from my suit bag and in full hand-on-hip, other hand drinking beer stance I take a no handed waz and peer out of the window. It's only when I go to shake that I realise something is wrong. There's an odd lump on my cock, and under no circumstances is that a good thing.

It was a tick.

One of those ticks is on my dick. I nearly fucking fainted. Gingerly pulling on my strides I walk back to the room.
"Honey?" I say "Can you just come here a sec?"
"Uh, darling. I could do with your help"

Having been appraised of the situation (And stifling her mirth) she tells me that we have to pull it out.
"No fucking shit"
She then goes on to explain that it must be done the right way and regales me of tales of one footed hikers.
"Well get it out the right way" I say
"I don't know how" she says "Hang on"
Now I think she's phoning her step father, the doctor.
She walks back in, with her mother.
"Don't be shy she says, let me have a look"
Given the alternative I relent.
So I'm looking down, my mother in law and my wife are kneeling before me, my mother in law peering over her half moon specs at my cock, just an inch away from the tip of her nose. She has a fiddle, but can't move it.
"Brengt" she shouts. "Can you come her a second?" And in walks the friend who also kneels in front of me.
It was like a porno come true. Except for the blood sucking tick on my cock.
Anyway. They got it out. Everything is all ok.

Except the two cackling crones walked out and told the brides parents what had happened. Who told the grooms parent, who during the meal made a toast to "the English guy with a tick in his cock"
(, Fri 29 May 2009, 12:38, 17 replies)
The true facts in the case of Mr Scarboro, Mr Martin and the mysterious disappearance of Arnold Fisher
So, I sat down and filled in the insurance form.

Date and Time of accident: 10.30pm, 3rd July.

Where were you at the time of the accident: Looking on, in abject horror, from my loft bedroom window, second floor of Scaryduck Towers, Weymouth.

Weather conditions: Dark, clear, very warm, half moon in Uranus.

Give a brief description of the accident: I was looking out of my bedroom window, which gives a panoramic view of the street below, and offers a pleasant vista over Portland Harbour. At no point, I may point out, was I using my binoculars to look into other people's houses.

My attention was drawn to the fact that my elderly neighbour, Mrs Warboys (name changed to protect the guilty), was standing completely naked in front of her bedroom window. I might not have noticed, but she had all the curtains open and the lights on. It was indeed a distraction, as they hang around her navel, and she appeared to have a poodle nesting in her groin.

Also distracted, alas, was the driver of the white Renault van, who I now know to be Mr Scarboro, whose whole-hearted attention to the 90-degree bend outside my house was cruelly wrenched away by the totally unnecessary sight of a very naked Mrs Warboys yawning, stretching and scratching her nadger at exactly the wrong moment.

With his window wound down and there being no other sound bar his van's engine, I clearly heard Mr Scarboro have cause to cry out the words "Christ on a Bike!" in surprise and alarm before failing to negotiate the bend and crash his van into Mrs Warboys' front garden.

Moments later, I saw the Ford Focus, driven by Mr Martin, drive along the same stretch of road, and similarly distracted by a naked octogenarian, collide with Mr Scarboro's van. Mr Martin did not shout out in surprise and alarm, as he was listening to The World Tonight on BBC Radio Four.

I would like to point out at this stage that while I called the Police to this incident, I am certainly not the person who quite unnecessarily called the Ambulance and Fire Brigade to the scene. We suspect this may have been the act of persons unknown after a now partially clothed and panicking Mrs Warboys ran out of the house screaming that one Arnold Fisher was trapped under the front wheels of Mr Scarboro's van.

It transpired only after a frantic search and the partial destruction of Mr Scarboro's vehicle by the Fire Service that Mr Arnold Fisher was, in fact, a garden gnome, around which Mr Warboys' ashes had been spread some years previously. Luckily, the ambulance was still on hand at this time to sedate Mr Scarboro before there was any further unpleasantness. Then he was sick inna hedge.

Who, in your opinion, caused the accident?: Mrs Warboys' minge

In the space below, draw a diagram showing how the accident occurred: Bingo!

(, Thu 28 May 2009, 13:51, 11 replies)
stupid flasher
I was flashed once when I was 14.

This guy can't have been quite right in the head as I'd seen him a few times earlier that same day nipping to the shop and a friend's place without incident. He decided to flash me when I was out with my dog.

I say "dog", Jack was the size of a small horse. He was also daft as a brush and seemed convinced that he was in fact a very small dog. He was also generally quite friendly (although he used to smile at people in a way that really creeped them out) so what he did surprised me in many ways.

He started to growl at this strange man waving his cock at me and pulling on his leash so I was really struggling to keep a hold of him. Some people might have just let him go and if I'm honest I did consider it, but at the time I had no idea what the consequences might be if Jack were to maul him and didn't really want to find out.

By this point, the bloke is rather scared and Jack is barking at him, pulling harder then ever. Not even bothering to put his bits away, he decided to leg it...


Slight backstory here. Jack loved to chase things. The problem with this is that he never quite figured out how to stop once he'd caught whatever he was chasing. We had to shut him in a seperate room whenever we hoovered otherwise you'd get a fluffy mass barelling into you and knocking you over. I knew I had to catch him before he really hurt this guy, flasher or no

The leash is torn from my hands and Jack is off like a shot. I ran after them, following the screams. By the time i catch up, Jack has the guy pinned, but I couldn't do anything to help. I was too busy laughing.

Jack had tackled him from behind and proceeded to hump him. By the time I had caught up he was trying very hard to stick his cock in this disgusting fella's ear. When I managed to regain control of myself, there was quite a crowd. All of them laughing and a few of them trying to remove Jack from this "poor poor man".

I explained to a couple of guys there what had happened. More laughter ensued and the police were called. Flasher was lifted on the spot, taken to the nick via A&E. Jack's vigorous humping had burst his ear drum.

It turned out they'd been after him for a while. This guy had been flashing pregnant women and children from the primary school down the road (eeew).

Length? I didn't see much through the tears of laughter but apparently it hurt :p
(, Sun 31 May 2009, 0:04, 9 replies)
Unexpected cock-slap to the face
I dont wear pants...Havent done for years.
I was helping my brother in law a while back with some DIY. we were fitting new plasterboard to a small bathrooms ceiling. I was crouching on a small scaffold, my B.I.L passed me the sheet of plasterboard and I held it in place. He prepared to climb up onto the scaffold next to me, and as it was a very small scaffold, had to get pretty close to do so. He was leaning in towards me preparing to hoist himself up when the crotch of my tracksuit trousers failed with a comedy ripping noise and my cock n balls, which had been squished up a bit due to my position, burst forth and slapped my brother in law firmly across the nose.

He hadnt been expecting that.

I laughed so hard I had to drop the board.
(, Thu 28 May 2009, 21:23, 8 replies)
for my dear friend misskitty
re: www.b3ta.com/questions/unexpectednudity/post435054

Mrs Spimf can’t do drugs. Not at all. She’s tried coke a few times and it always went like this...

"Want some of this coke baby?"

"No I cant, I cant, I really cant"


"Well maybe just a wee bit"


FFW 6 hours... and we have a raging Hoover nosed maniac with one eye going to the shops and the other one coming back with the change - demanding more sex, coke,porn,sex,coke,porn - you get the picture. She even got so off her face on a bottle of poppers at Tin the park she had to be carried a good mile or so back to the bloody tent. But that's just the preamble...

A good few years back we went to a really nice hotel in a wee fishing village in Scotland - Portpatrick to be precise. With some time to kill before dinner, lolling around in our room, I decide to roll a joint.

"Want to try some hash babes"

"No I can't smoke"

"You can eat it though"

"Hmmm? Ok - not much though!"

A small piece of hash the size of a pea is consumed then we took the dogs for a walk along the beach. Drugs? No effect. An hour later there we are in the rather posh hotel bar, Mrs Spimf in a LBD looking leggy, demure and pretty damn hot.

"Would you like a drink before dinner darling”?

"Yes, sherry please"

Now I don’t know what sort of fucked up constitution my Mrs has but it would seem a tiny speck of cannabis can lie dormant in her tumblyboos until one small sherry is sloshed down there, then it begins...

Giggling - fair enough
Talking Pish - fair enough
Sudden loss of short term memory resulting is said pish being repeated on loop - fair enough
Attempt to get off bar stool and go to the loo resulting in KO style collapse in the middle of the room - erm no.

To make matters even better she had landed smack on the floor at the owner’s feet who was chatting with her daughter. Soon revived and seemingly now ok (ish) while rubbing a slight bump on her head, Mrs Spimf (brilliantly) explains to the hotel owner she might have had an adverse reaction to some prescription medicine. Owner promptly offers to call a doctor; she even offered to act as a witness in the lawsuit she had conjured from nowhere that was going to 'ruin' the 'idiot' doctor that would prescribe such powerful drugs without proper warning. Suddenly Mrs Spimf is fine and dandy again so we decide to proceed with dinner. She's now hungry - celle surprise! A sip of wine and a nibble at her starter and she’s off again. Talking pish, swaying about, stuck on a Groundhog Day loop - the lot!


Quietly, I ask the waiter if he could sent the rest of the food up to the room and try to make as dignified an exit as one can with Ken Fucking Dodd in a cocktail dress waving and belming to a room full of bemused diners. So there we are back in the room - immediately Mrs Spimf strips naked. No idea why, the only thing I was intending eating at that point was my bloody steak, which was supposedly on its way up.

Knock knock - "room service"

"Come in" coos my idiot bloody wife, naked as a Tory MP in a boys dormitory.

The poor bloke trundles in with a splendid tray of delights, complete with comedy silver dome things on them. Give him his due he barely batted an eyelid as I hastily tried to cover my mad as a bat butt naked wife. He left with a smirk and large tip. After ten minutes of watching my wife struggling to use cutlery (she seemed to be knitting and imaginary scarf from invisible wool) I suggested at that point she might well be better in bed. So in she pops.

Thank. Fuck! Peace at last. Just as I finish my steak the convulsions start. Yes fucking convulsions.


So there she is: Portpatrick's answer to Jon Belushi writhing around in bed like Linda Blair's epileptic understudy. After some 'discussion' Mrs Spimf decides it is in fact...

"Nothing to do with the drugs - it must have been when I hit my head"

She then panics - decides she has a 'brain clot' from her tumble earlier (I had a few choice words on that one). Nevertheless Mrs Spimf demands a doctor be summoned.

"Head injuries must be investigated!"

So there I am - no choice. I called the owner and asked if she could discreetly request a local doctor give us a quick call just to reassure my idiot wife she is not destined to spend the remainder of her days communicating with one eyebrow. Ten minutes later an ambulance with full blues and twos rocks up.


All too soon the paramedics enter the room, along with the bloody owner and her daughter as well for good measure. After I managed to tactfully ask them to get the fuck out I had a quite word with the paramedic.

"Don’t think its the bump to the head mate" (looks around conspiratorially) "she's actually eaten a little bit of cannabis"

Paramedic looks confused,

"How much"

"Erm maybe enough for two fairly miserly joints"

Paramedic scratches head.

"What’s she doing eating it - your supposed to smoke it, at least that's what I do (winks), having said that if she's had a bump to the head we should maybe take her in for observation"


So they go to lift the pale and shaking Mrs Spimf out of bed


"She’s naked"

"Oh right, fine where are her clothes"

I gather up the frilly black undies, stockings heels and LBD and realise the chances of getting her dressed without more drama were, to even the most optimistic observer, bugger all.

"Fuck it, wrap her up in the duvet, I’ll take the clothes with me"

And so they did. Then popped her on a little chair with wheels affair and lifted her up....

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" cries my lunatic wife - "I'M SCARED OF HEIGHTS!!!!"

"Erm your only about 6 inches off the floor love"

"OH? ...Well it felt a lot higher"


So we process through the hotel lobby - the entire staff and guests it would seem had now lined up to see the drama unfolding with 'my lovely wife' now back on a high waving like a mong on a day trip to a window factory.

Kill me now, please God - end this now.

So we sat in the ambulance - it was at least 40 minutes to the nearest A&E. Mrs Spimf cracking jokes all the way. Me sitting there with a face like thunder. They treated Mrs Spimf and I like we had been up all night smearing methadone on a baby, grilled me on what she had 'actually taken' then eventually they let us home at around 3 am. The taxi back to the hotel cost about 50 quid - about 15 years ago.

I don't allow my wife drugs anymore. Muppet.
(, Sun 31 May 2009, 12:34, 24 replies)
Surprise nudity? Well it's not really a surprise when toddlers strip out of clothes and go running around but ...

My best friend's toddler boy was amazing. Whenever he was left alone with the household cat (a significantly large grey tom about 2/3rds the kids size and weight) he would strip off all of his clothes, get a death grip on the cat's tail - and then standing there naked behind a starting to get annoyed cat, holding on for dear life - he would then let loose with a stream from his little willie - peeing on the cat.

The cat would take off at mach speeds - pulling the kid along behind him in a skipping bouncing high acceleration adventure where the kids stubby little legs would only touch down every few feet in giant leaps and bounds as they traversed the apartment. He screamed with delight and joy the whole way "kitty! kitty!" and he never, not for a moment, *ever* stopped peeing on the cat.

Sometimes he'd reach down with one hand to adjust his equipment and aim - after rebounding off a wall or a table he was sometimes a bit out of alignment - but mostly he just couldn't miss - he was less than a tail's length away from something almost the same size as he was =)

Truly - the combination of the sheer happiness on the kids little face and the utter terror the poor cat was experiencing - will forever be locked in memory for me - I was just standing there talking a bit with his mum when the two of them came rocketing out of the hallway and crossed the living room in front of me, making a large u-turn (no skid marks at least =)) and then back into the hallway, the giggling and "kitty!" chanting taking on a doppler effect as it passed us by. Her reaction was to say "oh my, he's at it again" and raise her hand to her mouth to hide the smile while I just went from stunned senseless to smiling from ear to ear as my brain processed and replayed the scene and I realized what it was I had seen =)

The scene cheers me up even now just thinking about it =)

(it's years later, but if I ever encounter a tiger in the wild... for at least 2 seconds before I attempt to flee for my life - I'll be sorely tempted to risk life, limb (and certainly todger) to re-enacting the scene at adult sizes.. I know it won't work... I know one swipe and it'd be over but... but.. it just looked like so much fun!)

(I think it's too late to get on the best sheet... but I'd be touched if you gave me a click anyway =))
(, Wed 3 Jun 2009, 22:18, 5 replies)
Ollie Toe Fucker
I like to get sweaty in Finsbury Park with a bunch of men.

No, it's not a bukkake jizzbomb explosion free-for-all of atomic proportions - its fucking about on skateboards.

Now, I skate like I make love - frenetically, with lots of weird jerky motions, a shitload of swearing, and I usually end up hurting myself. Oh, and I'm usually absolutley off my fucking head, talking to pink elephants, slobbering at passing ladies boobies, finding Margaret Thatcher strangely attractive shitfaced.

This one time last summer on a boiling hot fucking day, I'm down at Finsbury Park, twatting about on my skateboard with my mates Phil and Steve. Steve's a bit of a Tony Hawk on the board on account of never going to school and learning how to skateboard instead. The cunt can hardly spell his own name, but, fuck me, when he's shooting round on a plank of wood with wheels on, he looks the fucking business. And Steve always skates barefoot. His weirdly long toes curling over the edge of the board - he really does resemble an incredibly well trained shaved circus chimp when he's in full flow.

Steve says to me: "Spanky - I wanna see you ollie down that slope there. If you can't do it, you owe me a pint later."

I nod.

Of course.

No problem.

Well, one slight problem: I didn't have a fucking clue what an ollie was.

Phil, who's swigging down his can of Stella says: "You don't know what an ollie is do you, you fucking retard? Tell you what - if you can't make the ollie, you owe me a pint too."

A few parents mulling about in the park tut in our general direction. (Apparently parks are the exclusive property of people with little kids when its a nice day and they don't like swearing, the cunts).

"I do fucking know what a fucking ollie is you hairless fucking freak of fucking nature," I reason. Phil had been getting on my nerves all fucking day.

He was - and still is - a cock.

"I'll show you how it's done," says Phil, and he slams his board down and sets off at pace.

And then something miraculous happens. I would quite happily have sold my soul to the devil if I'd have know what was about to happen happened...

Phil's front wheels hit a pebble or - knowing Finsbury Park - a used condom, bloated and swollen in the hot sun, the contents churning into some weird kind of rock hard spunk cheese; or a dirty old syringe pissing out blood and opiates -

and he fell, cartwheeling through the air. And he landed heavily on his knees, and what with him being a bit of a skater freak, he was wearing baggy skater pants -

- which were rendered free from his peachy buttocks as if an invisible pervert had stepped up behind him and wrenched the fuckers down.

Several parents gasped and sheilded their childrens eyes.

Steve and I, being responsible adults ourselves, pissed ourselves laughing. And then Steve launched himself forward, ran the twenty or so meters over to Phil while he was still a bit stunned and confused, and kicked him right up the jacksy with the sort of grace and poise you'd expect to see from the penalty kicker on the pitch at Twickenham.

And Steve's aim was so true, so straight, that he managed to get his foot stuck up Phil's arse; his big toe - Steve was barefoot - must've acted like some kind of living butt plug...

It was a truly remarkable sight, the ten seconds or so it took for Phil and Steve to part: Phil on the floor, wiggling his arse, howling in pain - Steve stood over him, jerking his foot back and forth, pushing down on Phil's head to try and break the unnatural, the unholy, the just plain wrong coupling of sphincter and toe, with Steve shouting:


And Phil responding with:


They got a round of applause when they finally parted; well - I clapped at least as Phil pulled up his jeans, Steve found a patch of grass and furiously wiped the stinky shitty chocolate starfish smell off his toe.

I wandered over to them: "If that's an ollie, you can fucking keep it, lads. And sod buying you a pint, I think I should buy you two a room and a packet of cigerattes to smoke after you've finised fucking each other... you make such a lovely couple."
(, Thu 28 May 2009, 14:38, 16 replies)
Not in a way I expected.
I remember staying at a girlfriends parents house, no sharing rooms allowed. We had not yet reached the point of sharing bodily fluids, a little bit off upper torso groping had been the limit of my exploration up until that point.

I had to sleep in the living room. At about 2am the girlfriend walks in naked, I wake up and immediately think "Fuck Yeah, Action Time".

Alas this was not to be as she ignored me and walked behind the TV set and proceeds to take a shit (quite a substantial one as well I may add). It was strange to see the body I had been lusting after in this most undignified first exposure.

I watched her walk back out and head back upstairs to her room. Fuck me I thought better clean this up as being the only occupant of the room I would be blamed if anyone saw it.

Two minutes later her mum walks in while I am on the floor with paper towels. “I heard the stairs creaking. I see Patricia has been sleep walking again, let me clean that up” she said in a matter of fact manner.

(, Fri 29 May 2009, 2:55, 12 replies)
Always Ultra (or: 'When farts become visible')...

For a shy person, I have been caught more times than I’d like to mention in situations that have left total strangers unexpectedly staring down the fleshy beak of my ‘last turkey in the shop’.

But recently, I suffered an experience that mentally scarred me EVEN MORE.

I won’t bore you with the backstory too much, but I have a kidney disease that requires regular tests. My doctor is also concerned at the state of my liver (no prizes for guessing why) so just a couple of weeks ago, I was ordered to the hospital to have an ultrasound scan.

Anyhoo, on the day in question I was sat in the queue…with a line of pregnant women and some bloke who looked like Yoda’s long lost half-brother. After a long, uncomfortable wait, a nurse stepped out of one of the examination rooms and approached me. She was what can only be described as a ‘goddess of perfection’. This nurse was so incredibly, surface-of-the-sun hot that even the old ladies were shifting on their seats and giving her admiring glances. I thought the Yoda bloke was going to have a coronary.

In the afternoon heat the staff had positioned fans to keep the patients cool, and the long blonde hair of the nurse was briefly wafted as she approached. When she stopped before me, the light shone behind her and I could make out the sillouhette of her phenomenal legs through her uniform. As I sat there, It took every ounce of stamina I had to force back droplets of gland grease from bubbling to the tip of my mutton musket.

She greeted me with a seductive smile and said: “I’ll see you now, Mr Flake…please follow me…” she spoke with a voice so smoulderingly sexy that it made me want to rip out my own tongue and rub it up and down her shapely thighs like a tastebud riddled piece of sandpaper.

I walked in behind her, my eyes transfixed on her pert arse as it wiggled ever-so-slightly with every step towards the examination room.

She then sat down at the big machine, turned to me and said: “Please get undressed”. I didn’t need asking twice. Desperately trying to suppress the ready-to-launch Trident missile in my pants I closed the door, then in one swift motion I heaved my trousers and dunghampers down to the ground, before standing up proudly, putting my hands on my hips and leaning back a bit, therefore allowing my cock and balls to hang proudly down and swing slightly in the breeze.

The gorgeous nurse glanced at me, raised one perfectly trimmed eyebrow and calmy said:

“No Mr Flake, this is a Liver examination – just removing your shirt will suffice”

ooh fucking hell

Crimson faced, I slide my pants back on, remove my shirt, then lay on the bed next to the machine. The helpful hottie then begins to spend the next thirty seconds intensly rubbing jelly over my body…I thought I was on a ‘one-way ticket to Spaffsville’ as she started inching down…slowly…slowly…towards my groovy groin garden…and despite my earlier indiscretion I still thought that I was going to spurt some glistening gonad gloop out of the piss-slit of my undies right there and then.

The stunning nurse is unfazed “Let’s give you a full ‘once over’ shall we?” she states clearly and professionally, yet every word still oozes with a divine eroticism as she calmy orders me to turn over one way, and then the next, before running this big torch-like thing over everything from my moobs to that funny hairy line between my cock and belly button.

Eventually, the examination is over, I wipe myself down with masses of paper towels, apologise profusely and sprint from the building with my shirt tucked under my arm.

Fast forward a week or so later and I go to the Doctors to find out the results. The quack reads me the usual riot act for my lifestyle, and then puts the scan report up on the screen for us to read together. As we study the findings, my mind wonderfully drifts back in time to when the ‘Angel of ultrasound’ was rubbing me up and down and I glaze over, looking wistfully at the monitor…

Unfortunately, I am then snatched back into reality as I notice what the nurse had written...

The report simply stated:

Liver: ‘Unremarkable’

(OK, so she could have chosen a nicer adjective, but that still meant good news – I wasn’t fucked - yay!)

Kidneys: ‘No change’

(Well, this is looking great! – I’ll be off to the pub then…)

Then I saw it…

Additional Comments: ‘Unable to get adequate reading from rest of scan - view obscured by an UNUSUALLY HIGH AMOUNT OF BOWEL GAS!

Holy fucking wank biscuits on wheels!

I recoiled in horror, wracked with remorse at contemplating what that beautiful woman must have suffered…not only had she copped an unwanted eyeful of my ‘weapon of muff distraction’, but she had actually SEEN MY FARTS!...and nobody deserves a first-hand view of the grisly stink monsters that were perculating in my rancid guts.

Nudity seems like less of an issue for me now, considering that someone has actually looked inside of me, but still...I don’t care what happens in the future – even if I get hit by a train or something...

I am never going back to that hospital.
(, Tue 2 Jun 2009, 11:03, 17 replies)
Oh yeah also
I was on the underground years ago and there was a very old, very well dressed, and very drunk gentleman standing by the door.

He was dressed impeccably from head to toe, other than the fact that his penis was hanging out of the front of his trousers. A woman opposite said "Excuse me! I don't think anyone wants to see that".

The chap said "Madam! Forgive me" and did up the two front buttons on his jacket.
(, Mon 1 Jun 2009, 14:02, 4 replies)
Nekkid woman
My ex-stepmother is far too worthy, self-righteous and power-happy to do anything other than make an utter fool of herself in absolutely everything she does. She is also so egotistical she is prone to create rather disturbing, bordering on the abusive, but ultimately in hindsight terrifically funny scenes like that detailed below, as a result:

When I was about 14, I'd got to the stage that I was decorating my room and generally turning into a bit of a punk/goth, so there were a lot of drapes and "arty" pictures in my room.

My wardrobe door was a bit tatty, so one day when I passed a shop selling long, thin posters, I decided to get one to cover it.

The one I chose was of a topless woman standing by a deep red velvet curtain, holding a black rose, by a white marble plinth thing (I make no apology - I was 14 - full of poetry and wobbly-voiced sincerity).

I put it up and that was that.

That evening my stepmother knocked on my door, opened it a crack, and told me "Vagabond - I don't like your poster. It's demeaning to women so I want you to take it down and throw it away."

She'd obviously planned this, as I played straight into her hands.

"It's only a naked woman - it's nothing to be ashamed of."

"Oh YEAH?!" she replied "Well if you want to see what a naked woman looks like, HERE IT IS!" and she burst in, in her birthday suit.

She danced around the room several times, tore down my poster, tore it into little pieces, threw the little pieces all over the room, and ran out.
(, Mon 1 Jun 2009, 13:57, 8 replies)
There is only one word for it – and it is “Yeeeeeooooooowwwww!”…

I used to go out with a girl who didn’t really like me. Now, of course there’s an element of understanding here – I wouldn’t want to go out with me either – but she seemed to persistently treat me with the kind of hearty disdain you’d normally reserve for peado Nazi kitten-rapists. Suffice to say, we were at the point in our short ‘relationship’ that meant we were just ambling through the motions on the verge of the inevitable break up…a break up that she seemed to be welcoming amongst her ‘special friends’ with open legs arms.

As part of this ‘going through the motions’ process, she had still come to watch my band perform our particular brand of atrocious craptitude in front of a paying, yet ‘blissfully unsuspecting of our impending shiteness’ public. This time we were at a small working men’s club, in a quaint little middle-of-fucking-nowhere village called Birdingbury.

Surprisingly, despite the fact that we were pathetically piss poor purveyors of puerile pop-pap, we began to experience a modicum of success amongst this blatantly entertainment-starved bunch of inbred mutants. Right from the off, people were dancing, cheering and drunkenly enjoying the proceedings.

What quickly became of interest to us however as the night went on, was the fact that amongst our obviously deluded audience was a bevy of quite stunningly succulent young ladies who were making no secret of the fact that they had graduated with honours from horniness school, and seemed fizzing at the flange for some band-related, ‘dirty lurve’ action.

One fine filly in particular had started the night sat on the right hand side of the dancefloor; and when I glanced over to her, she faced me and crossed her legs…making it perfectly clear to the band and I that under her obscenely short skirt she had neglected to slide her scuddies on before venturing out that evening. As a gentleman, I decided to take it upon myself to aquire full advantage of this situation. Upon establishing eye-contact, I nodded in appreciation.

She then stood up and joined her friends on the dancefloor, and put on a display for us all that made your average ‘dirty dancing’ seem more like ‘tame-arsed twatting about’.

I could not cget over how 'forward' this girl was…in the middle of the next song, she brazenly approached the stage, smiled, then started fondling my frisky phallic fruitbowl under my guitar in clear (and jealous) view of everybody!

I was astounded….Aroused, and very, very smug, but astounded nonetheless.

My girlfriend, however, did not seem to care one jot about this public display of affection by this girl – her attentions were somewhat distracted by trying to insert her entire body into the mouth of the club landlord of all people…who resembled Grizzly Adams’ Hairier uncle. Despite my anger at her, I still had to call time on my nwe 'number one fan’s activities…after all I was a professional…*ahem*.

I slowly moved back, she took the hint and went back to her seat.

After our first set, the band and I left the stage and slumped awkwardly towards the bar. At which point the girl, (I should apologise here and state that I never got to find out her name) made a beeline for me. There was no stopping her now…

“You’re lovely…would you like to come outside with me for a minute?” She asked seductively.

If the Guiness book of records had been there, they surely would have witnessed the fastest ever ‘yes’ answer in history.

She took my hand and led me outside. We had only just rounded the corner of the building when she pushed me against the wall and started kissing me in that over-emphasised, forceful, yet ‘faux-romatic’ way that late teens / early twenties folk do. Now, this was all very well and good, but with my meagre sexual experience at the time I was completely taken aback when with one swift motion, she planted her hand straight down the front of my grundies and started tugging away with such ferocity that I heard a ringing in my ears.

From the previous events of the evening I was already at half-stonk, so from the merest touch of her eager groping digits on my cock it had suddenly lurched into life, and within the blink of a hog’s eye I had gone harder than Chinese advanced algebra.

Thinking it rude to not reciprocate, I leaned forward gently then thrust my hand up her skirt to discover that the ‘hairy wink’ she had given me when she was sat down earlier was not an optical illusion, and her clopper was indeed a purely panty-free zone. However, as I delved further and established contact I encountered a slight twinge of disappointment, as I quickly discovered that she possessed a unkempt mott like a lorry driver’s breakfast. Sportingly, I still rummaged around, desperately probing amongst the various bits of dangling meat and dripping for any ‘sticky-out’ parts to flick at frantically like a boxer’s speedball.

She moaned appreciatively at this, and although I had established that this girl was not the ‘shy and retiring’ type, even I was surprised as she then proceeded to slowly drop to her knees, unzip my trollies, heave out my tadger and schlurp my monument of man-meat into her mouth like a hungry carthorse in a hotdog eating competition

Overwhelmed, yet incredibly turned on by the girl’s sheer audacity and deep-throat ability, I enthusiastically gyrated in time with the rhythmic back-and-forth motion of her head, letting my clockweights knock gently against her chin like a Newton’s cradle

Of course, I knew I couldn’t keep this momentum very long, and the spaff was bubbling within me like a gonad-gunk geyser . Eventually and inevitably…with a ‘shudder’ and an uncontrollable groan, I gurned my grimacing face skywards and exploded a gargantuan 'gland grenade' into her grateful and gaping gob. Watching her ‘gulp’ as she swallowed deeply was a glorious sight to behold…yet fate had decided I wasn’t going to be able to ‘savour the moment’…

No sooner had I began to experience the post-spurtage-whilst-standing-up ‘wobbly leg syndrome’, when I was clanged violently back into reality by the scornful screech of my girlfriend…who in a rare act of courtesy had gone looking for me, and who had turned the corner of the club just in time to watch me deliver both barrells of ballistic bollock brylcream into my admirers mouth, face and hair.

“WHAT THE FUCKING HELL ARE YOU DOING?!” She yelped – her face now etched with shock and contorted with rage.

Maybe I should have been braver…after all, she had fired into someone else that very night in front of me, but at that moment I didn't consider the multiple injustices she had made me suffer whilst we were together – all I felt was the sinking remorse of being rumbled…eyebrows deep in the overwhelming swamp of guilt that can only be achieved by being caught with your cock in another girl’s oesophagus.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry” I said, and I jerked back my hips to retract my dribbling dongler from the girl’s cake-hole. The girl remained on her knees – totally silent and still…moving only to wipe a few droplets of splooge that I had inadvertently shot into one of her eyes.

“I don’t believe this – you BASTARD!” My girlfriend shrieked. This prompted me into thinking that perhaps now was the right time for us to have the ‘we’ve got to talk’ moment…

But yet, I was flustered, with several emothions and panic running through my body. Quickly deducing that the first and most important thing to do was to put my knob away, I would give it a quick tuck then firmly whip my zip up with a swift tug...

My cock, however, had other ideas. It was still in a state of (now unnecessary) hardness and had obviously decided on it’s own that it was enjoying the open air and wanted to stay out to sniff it a bit longer…as a result of this it was not yet 100% back in my pants at point of closure…



Time froze. To her credit, the girl stayed there...on her knees, as blood began to pour from my now ripped-to-pip, cheese-grated cock end.

With several ‘Oh my fucking GOD!’s cried out by everybody, the full horror of what had happened began to become clear.

Pulsating with agony and unable to communicate without bellowing various colourful expletives, I was on my way to the floor to crouch up into a pain-filled ball, when I heard a voice...

“Hold on, let me have a look at it” The girl on her knees said as I coyley recoiled.

“Jeeeessusss-fucking-Christ-on-a-cunting-unicycle!” I exclaimed, as she gently prodded at my crotch where blood was now seeping heavily…and the pain was excrutiating.

What happened then was truly remarkable. My girlfriend and this girl then shared a glance, and without a word being spoken, they seemed to decide that 'everything else could wait', and that the safety of my savagely slashed sex-stick was now the top priority.

Finally, the gobbling girl spoke: “My friend’s here tonight and she’s a nurse” she said quite calmly as she stood up “Let’s get him inside”…

With one arm around this girl and the other around my girlfriend I staggered along as they helped drag my battle-damaged carcass back towards the club.

We burst through the doors with blood still seeping from my semi-severed shaft, which was poking sheepishly through my trousers…the blood now intermingling with the last remaining droplets of spicy schlong salsa which I had involuntarily spaffed in the ensuing commotion.

Everybody turned round and saw me looking exhausted…with my arms round two girls…with one of them calling for her friend…with my mutilated member still hanging out, and with a nether-region caked in blood. What happened next was a mixture of gasps, dropped jaws…and then complete fucking hysterics (mostly by the band)

I tell you, In the sacred name of Billie Piper’s blessed butt-plug it fucking hurt like nothing on this earth.

As her friend (the nurse) approached I noticed that she was also as hot as hell – (just my luck!). However, my brief and blurry thoughts of the prospect of a 'ménage-a-trois' were quickly stifled by the fact that at this point my spam-javelin looked like it was trying to have a sympathy 'period', as bloodied lumps began to clot over my dishevelled salty stormtrooper.

I nearly collapsed as the mighty fine & foxy Florence Nightingale calmly called for the first aid box from behind the bar, then professionally released my potentially crippled cum-spitting cucumber from it's jagged zippy stranglehold, before administering an ample bandage to me in the corner of the room, watched by several hundred prying eyes. I began to feel faint as it became apparent that my blood supply had no idea where to go first – into my deeply embarrassed face?, into my diminished and deflated cock? (to hopefully give it a bit of manly pride-length), or just to simply continue spurting out of the gaping wound by my brutally butchered bell-end?...

In the end it tried all three. and failed.

Once patched up, the magic of the evening had understandably disappeared somewhat…and so had my girlfriend…yet I still had to go back on stage and 'perform'. For the whole time it was difficult to tell who was the more embarrassed - me, or the audience - but for the remainder of the gig I could barely look anybody in the face…not to mention how awkward it is to jig about and pretend like you're 'enjoying the music' when it feels like an atomic bomb has gone off in your shreddies, and you're actually petrified of moving...or even letting your guitar hang anywhere near your undercarriage (oh, and FYI, If you ever find yourself in this position, do NOT play 'foot-tapping' Beatles songs!). Unsurprisingly, the night was ruined for all...

We were subsequently not invited back.

In hindsight, my main worry now is how embarrassingly small my love lozenge shrank to under the ordeal...and this was at the single point when more people saw it all at once than at any other time I have ever experienced since.

Yet even today, when I glance down at my bellend when fully engorged, and the now (deceptively small) scar, I am reminded of 'what could have been' with that girlfriend, had those events not happened that night…

But all in all...I think it was worth it...a Lucky escape I reckon.
(, Mon 1 Jun 2009, 13:03, 14 replies)
"Greg," I said tentatively. "Can I have a look at your cock?"

Suprisingly, Greg said no. Infact he said: "No - fuck off you weird cunt."

But it wasn't as if I wanted to play the pink oboe. All I wanted to do was... have a quick look. I was a fifteen year old boy and the only spam dagger I'd ever seen was my own and I had issues... size issues. I just wanted to compare my own length and girth with somebody elses, just so I could say: "Yep - I'm normal." Yep - I'm in possession of the sort of package any lady would be happy to receive a warm gloopy jet-powered vitamin-and-mineral-enriched deposit from.

The reason for my sudden insecurity in the semen submarine department was Maria. She was my new girlfriend and it was a well known fact she'd - how can I put this? - been round the block more times than the number 29 bus. Her last boyfriend was a sixth former named Darren who was famed in my school for being hung like a bull elephant.

I just didn't feel like I could compete.

I even spent a fucking painful afternoon with my cock sellataped to the windowsill in my bedroom, with my bell end firmly strapped in place I shuffled backwards as far as I could in an attempt to stretch my piece. All that did is HURT, and temporarily stretch my foreskin so it hung round my manhood like a flappy, wrinkly pink overcoat for a couple of days before it shrunk back to normal size.

I was - you could say - in a bit of a state, mentally.

And the main reason for this was my mate Joe was having a party at his gaff the coming Saturday night - his parents were out of town; the place was going to be filled with horny teenagers. Maria and I were going as a couple; our first official outing together. And I was hoping to use the occasion as a way to fool, trick or beg Maria into letting me fill her flaps with 100% premium Spanky cock.

- Only I had real concerns that I wouldn't be able to touch the sides on account of the last piece that rubbed against Maria's lady chamber being big and fat enough to fill the Albert Hall (including the lobby and backstage areas).

I was fucking fucked...

Then I hit on an idea. A fucking GENIUS idea...

So, its Friday night. Joe's party is in full swing. I've found a nice quiet place to sit with Maria and we're getting down to some serious tonsil tennis. I'm sat with my legs wide open, I'm wearing my best tight wight chinos. I've already managed to catch a few of the other girls at the party stealing a dirty glance at my - quite fucking frankly HUGE package. I am Billy big balls and I know it.

Maria whispers in my ear: "Spanky, just looking at your trousers is making me wet." And she snogs me long and hard, and her hand slips down my chest, over my stomach, and rests on my belt for a while. Then, ever... so... slowly...

...the tips of her fingers play over my MASSIVE dong.


I snog her harder, my shaking hand reaches up beneath her skirt and I fumble round her gaping axe wound with my trembling fingers. I rub her bits roughly through the fabric of her panties.

"Shall we take this upstairs?" Maria breathes into my ear. I nod eagerly. And we slink upstairs. But all the bedrooms and the bathroom - even the cupboards full up with teenagers inexpertly rubbing and fucking.

Then I try to put phase two of Operation Fuck Maria in motion. "I just have to take a piss," I say romantically. But Maria points out the bathroom's locked. So we go back downstairs and return to our quiet dark secluded spot in the corner of the livingroom. The music's loud, there's loads of bodies dancing to Spandau Ballet. No one would probably notice if we did it doggy style right there in the corner.

Fuck me, I was horny. But this was a critical point in the Operation; I was a bit pissed to say the least and all the blood had rushed to my cock, so I wasn't thinking straight.

"I really need to wee," I say to Maria. "I'm gonna go in the garden."

But Maria gave me a look as if to say: Leave me now and you've missed your chance, buddy...

So I remained rooted to the spot through the awsome power of possibly getting some. We kissed a bit more, Maria rubbing my massive peice. And then - after a while - she unbuttoned my chinos...

...I was so into the moment I hardly noticed.

But I did soon enough - and so did the rest of the room as Maria said really incredibly loudly:


As she held my cock high in the air, staring at it in disbelief.

Oh, fuck...

The lights went up, the music stopped as Joe reasoned somebody was being raped or murdered in his parents living room.

And then everyone stared at the object in Maria's hand, and they stared down at me, red faced with my fly open and my real cock trying desperately and pittifully to make its inferior prescence known.

Maria sniffed my MASSIVE dong as she examined it closer: "Why the fuck have you got a salami down your pants?" she asked.

And I really didn't have an answer to that. I'd planned to visit the little boys room at the critical moment, remove the fake pork product cock, and hope Maria was too pissed to notice I'd, well, shrunk a bit when I returned.

And I went home that night with my cherry still intact...

... and with my dignity in tatters.

... I'd lost one sexy new girlfriend.

... and gained a whole raft of new Italian-sausage-related nicknames that plauged me until I moved to a new school two years later...

That was unexpected nudity, I can tell you.

...AND I never got my salami back...
(, Mon 1 Jun 2009, 22:35, 10 replies)
The Tale Of Captain Sparky
Picture the scene... A hot day in Summer, not unlike today.
You've been dragged shopping by your girlfriend and the air-con is busted in your car, rendering it hotter than the Royal Box in Hell.
This had happened to my dear friend, Captain Sparky.
He got home, a tired, sweaty and broken wreck of a man.
"Right," He thought to himself, "Time for a shower and a few hours of computer-based gaming."
So, he takes his clothes off, heads to the bathroom and, well, has a shower. As you do.

Desweatinating having been achieved, he turns the taps off, opens the glass cubicle door and stops dead.
There's a man looking at him through the bathroom window.
He's on the second floor of the house.
Thoughts shoot through his head.
"Am I being perved on by Spiderman?"
"Is there some kind of Zero-Gravity-Homo out there?"
"Why did he look so happy, then so, so sad?"

Turns out it was the window cleaner.
Captain Sparky is tall, thin and had, at the time, long blonde hair. From the back, in the shower, he could pass for a woman, fairly easily (I assume. I have no hard evidence for this. Maybe "hard" was the wrong choice of word. Anyway...).

So, Mr. Window Cleaner was up his ladder, perving away on this "young lady" in the shower, waiting to get a glimpse of The Goods. Instead he got a penis-flavoured shock, right in his face.
Serves him right.
(, Mon 1 Jun 2009, 12:53, 7 replies)

10:40 – Morning break time

Terry the school fixer and acquirer of contraband extraordinaire (he’d once sourced a shitload of copies of that Madonna book with all the nuddy photos; my God, that was a disappointment), pulled me into the bogs. I gave him a tenner, he handed over the Tescos carrier bag full of goodies. I slipped the bag into my satchel nodded curtly and went on my merry way.

11:00 – 12:30 – Double English

While the teacher prattled on about the relationship between two characters in King Lear – the old mad fucker himself and some bird named Gonorrhea, I think, I was distracted. I kept reaching into my satchel to make sure my illicit purchase was still there. I rubbed the crinkly plastic of the carrier bag like a loving parent tousling a child’s scruffy hair. It was during this lesson of tedium – now the teacher was going on about some bloke named Duke who was from Gloucester – that I hatched out my plan. I just couldn’t wait until I got home. I just couldn’t,... So, eager and ever-so-slightly engorged, I looked up at the clock and counted down the minutes to-

12:30 – Lunch Time

My mate Greg asks if I want to go and play footie with a few of the lads. “Fuck no,” I say, and speed out the classroom, trundle down the long pathway leading to the main gates, and then I’m free. I’d already thought of a great place to *ahem* sample my wares. There was a HUGE fucking roundabout a little way further down the road, a really big fucker lined with trees and big bushy shrubs. I’d pissed about in the centre of the place before and it was pretty secluded – an oasis of calm in the middle of this busy build-up area.

12:35 – Roundabout

After legging it across the road I push through the foliage, find a nice shady spot, reach into my satchel and pull out my purchase. I tear open the carrier bag and say a little prayer. “Oooohh, yes!” I lay out in front of me on the warm dry grass the six or seven copies of this specialist reading material Terry had sourced for me. It was all good stuff. I could feel my trouser tiger start to growl in anticipation. You can keep your super models, you can keep your airbrushed porn; for me, there’s just nothing as sexy, nothing as downright cock-thumpingly alluring as seeing a load of middle aged ladies from Stoke in cheap grundies showing their wet bits for the pleasure of their fellas and the general public at large – yep – I’m talking Readers Wives. And I was the proud owner of six or seven mags packed full of the horny buggers.

12:36 – Down to business

Having released my baby-maker, feeling the slight kiss of the breeze on my balls, I’m getting down to some seriously frantic expert wankerage, flipping through the veritable feast of cellulite, cheap C & A panties, and ultra-hairy minge laid out before me. Eventually I settle on one special lady – a forty year old battleaxe from Norwich who’s bending down and spreading her legs so wide I’m sure I can see what she had for lunch that day. And it all feels so naughty, what with the sound of the traffic zooming round the roundabout. But I’m secluded. I’m alone. I am an island. I’m a maverick. And I’m having a very nice, though incredibly frantic wank.

12:37 – Release !!!

With a little whimper, like a dying puppy, I shoot my gloop over the grass and over my hand. I feel, quite literally, drained. I quickly wipe my sticky fingers on the immaculate lawn, dab my weeping bell end with a couple of stray leaves, zip up and get ready to make my way back to school.

12:38 – Oooh, bugger....

Then – as I’m putting my Readers Wives mags back in my satchel I just happen to glance up and to my left, to the offices of British Timken (they make ball bearings, you know), which has a great view of the main road leading into Duston, Northampton, its a pretty damn large building that dominates the skyline and overlooks the local vista, including a very nice view over the trees and shrubs of the centre

of ....




In the higher windows on the third or fourth floor – probably their canteen, what with it being lunch time - there were about fifty or sixty faces – men and women – staring down at me. I stared back for a bit. They continued to stare. I felt like a frightened bunny caught in the headlights. Some of the faces looked pretty frightened too.

1:30 Afternoon Lessons

I spent the rest of the day cringing inside sat at my desk, shitting myself to the point of distraction, hoping and praying that the school wasn’t going to receive a complaint about one of their pupils being caught doing a spot of solo cock ballet in full view of a shitload of hopefully titilated and sexy feeling, but most probably vomit-induced and disgusted factory workers.
(, Wed 3 Jun 2009, 10:27, 7 replies)
Postman Twat!
A few weeks ago on one Saturday morning, the wife decides she'd get us a breakfast roll from the local butchers. It's about five mins away, after 15 mins I hear the front gate open, and being the mischievous blighter I am, I decided it would be funny to stick my willy through the letter box.....it wasnt the wife and my cock was rammed by two bank statements and our voting cards.

Wife came home 5 mins later.
(, Wed 3 Jun 2009, 17:01, 2 replies)
A number of years ago, and for reasons totally irrelevant to this story I found my good self having to share a hotel room with my dearest Dad.

I was knackered, so retired to bed, leaving Hat Snr to prop up the bar.

Having drifted off into my much deserved sleepy time the unmistakable sound of Pissed Bloke Trying To Be Quiet started to intrude, followed by my retinas burning as the twat turned the light on. Rolling over to lie on my side, I opened my eyes ready to berate the noisy fucker.

I have since learned that at that point he was desperately trying to remove his trousers in a way that only a pissed bloke can, ie. hopping round on one leg as he bends over to try and free his foot from a trouser leg.

What I actually saw, and filling my whole field of vision, was his naked arse, as he slowly toppled backwards.

And sat on my face...

This was how I came to call my dearest Dad a stupid cunt for the very first time.
(, Tue 2 Jun 2009, 18:57, 1 reply)
Part of my job involves trawling round on the Tube, picking up various tropical diseases from the seats and attempting to avoid the weird fuckers who think they’re the second coming of Christ, and this means I should give them some money.

Just recently I was sat on the Jubilee line travelling up to Neasden for a meeting. It was a hot day and I could feel the sweat running down my back and pooling in my arse crack – not pleasant. Not pleasant at all.

Then at Swiss Cottage a fug-ugly middle aged woman who resembled a broiled Gamorrean Guard with tits clambered onto the train and sat opposite me. The first thing that struck me was that this walking mountain of wobbly lard and cheeseburgers wasn’t wearing a bra. The second thing that stuck me was that she really shouldn’t have been wearing a baggy low cut vest top which showed off the sort of cleavage your average Alpine skier would find a challenge to slalom down.

Now, she was fucking ugly. But – being a pervert of some repute – I was instantly a little bit hard; I could feel the tip of my cock weep a little in appreciation, making a bit of a sticky mess in my pubes.

Then I did the pretending-not-to-look-at-her-tits-while-looking-at-her-tits thing. Then she did something amazing. Something truly wonderful –

She leaned forward in her seat giving me complete and unrestricted viewing rights to her pendulous bobbing and swaying zeppelins. She had fucking HUGE dark nipples the size and shape of fried eggs.

Fuck me...

So, being a perfect gentleman, I stared intently at her norks for a good few minutes. Then something occurred to me – I really should capture this moment for posterity. I had a brand new Samsung Soul camera phone in my pocket and had bought the fucker mainly because of its pretty decent camera.

I casually reach into my pocket, pulled out the mobile and pretended to do some really important fucking about with the various unnecessary functions while I prepped the camera for some clandestine North London wildlife photography – there’s nothing quite like taking a photo of a couple of trembling great tits in their natural environment.

I aimed the camera as secretively as I could, not making it obvious I was trying to capture this munters sizable assets to use as a screen saver on my laptop later. I had the perfect image of mammary goodness on my mobile’s screen- making sure to cut her head out of the frame - and then I pressed the little clicky button, and-


Now, I don’t know if anyone else out there’s got one of these Samsung Soul mobiles, but if you do you’ll know the flash on them is brighter than the fucking sun going super-fucking-nova. The entire carriage was bathed instantly in the brightest fluorescent light known to humankind. It’s the type of scorching light that can detach retinas and make heavily pregnant women give birth instantly.

Time stood still as various commuters looked over in my direction.

It was pretty damn obvious what I was up to...

That was an uncomfortable few minutes til I got to Neasden, I can tell you, as I sat there quietly dying of embarrassment inside while complete strangers muttered “pervert,” under their breath and mothers moved their small children as far away from me as possible...
(, Fri 29 May 2009, 10:07, 9 replies)
Welcome to Miami Beach
Summer of 1990
Nan and Granddad came to visit, excited to see the video of our recent family trip to Florida and Disney that they had helped fund for our Christmas present. They settled nicely on the settee, Dad popped the video on and we all settled down to watch the video back for the first time in it’s full unedited (and lengthy) glory.

‘Ooh, that’s Mickey Mouse’ squealed Nan.

‘I don’t know why you filmed that’ harrumphed Granddad.

‘See, you didn’t believe I was late back to the bus because I’d seen an Alligator, did you?’ boasted Dad.

‘You are such a sulky teenager’ bitched Mum, at one video of 15 year old me sat on a curb with a face like thunder.

‘I loved that beach’ piped up my younger brother when a video of him, Mum and Dad playing in the sea came on.

‘Oh shit, this is going to be awkward’ I thought with a sinking heart as I remembered what I’d done.

And the camera pans off to the right as two gorgeous, topless, G-string wearing beach babes walk sexily towards it like something off Baywatch.

They get closer and the camera moves slowly with them, back to facing the sea where my family are still playing in the background as they are obscured by the profile shot of these magnificent breasts passing in front of me and then follows their thong clad arses off into the distance over a painful period of about 2 minutes.

And we sit their in pained silence.

And I want the world to stop turning.

And then my brother pipes up ‘Did you see those bazoomas?’

Yes. Joe. Sadly, Yes.

I think we all did.

Length? Well, as I said, about 2 minutes. Would have been longer if I knew how the zoom worked and I could have kept them in focus though.
(, Mon 1 Jun 2009, 13:43, 3 replies)
Caught in the Act
My first girlfriend, to paraphrase Alan Partridge, was “certainly first in the queue when God was handing out chests”. I often remarked/boasted, as teenage boys did back then (the mid-90s), and almost certainly still do now, about her ‘assets’, with my favourite adage being that she “wouldn’t be afraid to go in the showers”. My Dad overheard this one day and added that “she wouldn’t get her feet wet”, which eventually broke forth the floodgates in terms of his array of 1970s sitcom-style innuendo-like references to the female body whenever my girlfriend’s name was mentioned from thereon in.

Anywho, as I was her first boyfriend, we were at the stage where we’d both discovered sex, me with the realisation that girls loved it as much as us boys did, and to use hackneyed phraseology, were ‘at “it” like rabbits’, most of the limited free time we had alone together; and as sixth form students with free periods and parents who both worked and younger siblings who were both in full-time education, was a lot more frequent than not.

So it passed, that one Friday afternoon, we had a free period that clashed, so adjourned to her parents’ house for some vaginally-penetrative sexual intercourse. Finding the house alone, it being daytime and all, she cheekily suggested getting down to it in the living room, and feeling the stirring in my Y-front garden (I was yet to discover the world of Calvin Klein), I was not one to cause an argument, so we soon found ourselves inflagrante on the sofa, me going away like a Singer sewing machine.

After about five minutes it happened, the catalyst to this story. “Cum on my tits” she whispered to me, mid-pushback. Wow! This was to be a first for me, the prospect of my errant member going near her bousies! The fact that she was requesting ejaculate on her mamms, would be akin to asking the Titanic to clear its bilge tanks over the dark side of the moon (and I don't mean a Pink Floyd album cover), but reaching one’s climax over a girl’s thrupnies did not require a second invitation, so I duly withdrew my, by now, pulsing gutstick from her Hong Kong garden, was met with ‘the gasp’ (not dissimilar to ‘the gasp’ when ‘it’ went ‘in’ five minutes previously), and proceeded to waddle forward on my knees, like a weary Muslim on his fifth call to Mecca that day, and straddled her, lad in hand, ready to begin stroking like a stroppy Andy Murray until the bald man cried forth his milky treat.

I was jerking away when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye at the window. Now, UK residential planning isn’t what it used to be, especially in this part of Oxfordcestershire, and parallel to their living room window was their neighbours’ driveway. I espied a block of dark blue slowly moving from left to right, and, looking up, still mid-tug, saw the next-door neighbour’s car slowly reversing down their drive. When I mentioned parallel to the drive, they could, despite the partial net curtaining of most of the window, see into the living room, should they choose to do so. In my struggle for freedom, I did not notice whether they had indeed looked in, so carried on with my personal Battle of the Bulge. It was only when that I realised, lump in throat and lump in cock, that the same block of dark blue was now slowly moving from right to left; yes, I had been spotted, and they were coming (unlike me) back to make sure their eyes hadn’t deceived them! Well fuck me sideways with a lolly stick! thought I.

So, I did what any proud Englishman would do – I carried on; I was in Sarson's Street for fucks's sake. I clocked their aghast, open mouths, and red–faced and sweating, continued to beat away for Harry, St George and England. I braved the possible ‘what would the neighbours say’ scenario (they weren’t my neighbours after all) and fed fuel to the likelihood they wouldn’t be able to look that nice girl next door in the eye again. She carried on looking my chap in the eye, and I eventually managed to bring my thought processes back to the matter at hand, eventually dousing her Devil’s dumplings with a liberal sprinkling of holy water. Like the true gentleman that I still am to this day, I did not share what I’d seen with her, and neither to my knowledge did her neighbours. We split up a couple of months later when I realised not only do girls love it as much as we do, but some let you do even more naughtier things with them. Like drawing the curtains. Then letting you wipe your cock on them afterwards.
(, Fri 29 May 2009, 11:27, 6 replies)
Everyday partial nudity contest....with a contestant total of 1
I was in work one day and discovered bleeding from me bum, so I went to the docs. After a quick examination (which did include the line "At least buy me a meal first doc...) I was to discover I was infected.

I had an op 10 weeks ago which was to remove to remove a Pilonial Sinus (I think that's how it's spelled). Not a nice thing and surprisingly common; basically an ingrowing hair forms a sinus which leads to infection within certain areas of the body which tends to be hairy.

In the case of myself, mine was found to be slap-bang in the middle of my arse cleft, just below the Chocolate Mineshaft.

Now there are medications which can be taken to remove the infection, but these do not cure the root cause which is the hair itself, so the main method of resolution is to surgically cut and remove the entire sinus from the body. Meaning that since 10 weeks ago, I've got a new wound in my ass, next to my rusty bullet wound. Which randomly hurts like fuck.

I've been on tablets of varying strengths and the wound has been infected 3 times (the first of which was pronounced Strep-toe-cockia, I couldn't make it up, typical, I get a new hole up my ass and within a week I had a cock in it). Also as part of the recovery process, every single day I have to visit the local doctors and have the wound-packing changed (except for weekends, a nurse calls round to the house to do it). This involves removing the existing outside dressing and some cotton thread which is stuffed into the wound, and replacing with fresh ones.

So every single day for the last 10 weeks my arse has been seen and visited by many a Swansea nurse, so much so that I have suggested I stick it on Google Maps as a popular tourist spot. I have to drop my kegs and get a rear-bikini wax from the removal of such dressing while some nurse uses a cotton bud to ram cotton wool up my 2nd hole, it's a beautiful thing. It does have it's benefits, some of them nurses are quite fit :D

As you can imagine, small-talk during the anal exchange can be a bit weird. I have been known to have said so far;
"Do you come here often?"
"Bet you wish you was a midwife now."
"..and that's why women are shit drivers..." if she happens to hurt me while prodding it in
"Fucking hell, I'm not Sooty!" after a particularly painful adjustment by one.
Another had difficulty placing the wool packing in and said "The problem here is that your arse is too firm" which was met with the reply "Errrrr, thanks?"

Last week I had to visit the hospital for a checkup by one of the operating consultants, who after another partial moony moment informed me that there was hair growing around the wound but falling into it, so he announced he would shave me there and then. A nurse was called in, who had to palm-push my cheeks as far apart as possible while this doctor dangled a razor-blade very closely to my manhole. I made a quick funny as per; "Do I bite the pillow now doc?" to which the nurse started laffing a bit. This unfortunately led to another nurse in the adjoining room leaning her head through a door to see what was happening, to be greeted with me belly-down with my ass sticking up in the air mounted upon nurse-palm-scaffolding while an African doc was ramming a razor up my ass. I tilted my head towards her to make eye-contact and coughed "Excuse me..." before she sniggered "Sorry" and closed the door.

Still on the daily treatments now so apols for length, twas about 6-8cm deep but now only 2....
(, Thu 28 May 2009, 20:22, 4 replies)
Early on in my relationship with my girlfriend (now wife), I was visiting her down in Cardiff, where she was at Uni.

Her flat-mate had an old friend staying with her - a very large, very Australian lady I'll call "Daphne"
(You already know where most of this is going, don't you?)

Daphne was good fun - swigging red wine at about the same pace I could swig lager. Uncharacteristically for her race (pfffrt) she became very loud, very shocking and outrageously flirty the drunker she became.

We were all chatting in the kitchen and she was doing some harmless flirting with me in front of my lass - simply, I suspect, because she saw it was making me uncomfortable (my girlfriend also found my discomfort funny). Haha. Great, laugh it up girls.

As the glasses of wine continued to slosh down her big flapping mouth, barely touching her throat and into her even more voluminous stomach, this flirting got more intense and crude:
"Awww, y'know me... I wouldn't chuck ANY man out of bed... " *eye contact with me* "...unless it was so I could FUCK HIM ON THE FLOOR".
etc. That sort of thing.

Anyhooo, eventually it was time for me and the missus to go out for a meal *phew*

We returned later, both a bit sloshed and did the things you do and ended a nice evening drooling contentedly on each other's shoulders.

Then, at about 3am I got the old "too many beers" pressure on the bladder - the really annoying piss that makes you have to get out of a warm bed in a cold house. Grrr.

3 am... I could risk it. I didn't want to wake-up my girlfriend by faffing about trying to find where those boxer shorts got flung, so I went for it - a quick listen around the door then a brief rudie-nudie scamper down the corridor towards the toilet. Then, at the point of no return *click* the toilet door started to open.

I was caught in no-man's land.
Absolutely no chance of making it back.
I gambled, I lost.

In the time it took for me to turn back, forwards, back, then forwards again in a pantomime stylee, the door was open and there she was... Daphne, framed in the doorway wearing only one thing more than me - a big smile.

There wasn't even any point covering-up, so, in mock horror I covered my nipples with my fingers (while she took a very slow, deliberate look at 'the goods') while I muttered something about needing the loo.

Being the understanding type she was, she said "Oh, of course mate... in you go" then, rather than stepping out into the corridor, she simply turned sideways to 'make room' for me to get past her.

When I say 'room', I mean approx. 3 inches of clear space between her big naked unashamed body and the door frame.

Urgh. I'm squirming right now remembering this, but not as much squirming as was necessary to actually get past her.
I risked an arm - yip, that got past without contact, but then came the pure flesh-on-flesh contortions necessary to slide past.
All the time, she was making eye contact and grinning (with the odd sarcastic "ooh" or moan).

God, it seemed to take ages (I think I came twice, haha) but eventually I made it in and shut the door behind me, panting like I'd survived a sniper attack or something, only to hear the faint sound of an Australian-style guffaw outside.

I dreaded the next day, but good old Daphne actually spared me when we all met-up in the kitchen for breakfast. She just smiled sweetly at me then popped a whole sausage in her mouth while I turned bright purple and suffered from Vietnam-veteran-style flashbacks.

Why? Why did I just tell you all that?
(, Thu 28 May 2009, 15:55, 7 replies)
Serenity & Fishing...
My mate John has got the hairiest balls in the known universe. The locals on the Planet of the Apes would scratch their simian heads, take a look at John’s hirsute knacker-wrapper and say: “Fuck me, that fella’s got the hairiest set of plums I’ve ever seen.”

Not that I actively seek out a quick shufty at John’s scrote, far from it. But John’s just one of those fellas who likes getting his cock out at weddings, christenings, and other social occasions for the amusement of others. He really should’ve been on Britains Got Talent; his Speedo afro would’ve got my vote over Susan Boyle any fucking day.

One time we were fucking about doing a bit of fishing in the Lakes. Nice day. Sunshine. Ladies walking about in their bikinis – a sudden and impromptu cold breeze which turned their nipples into diamond-hard bullets for the appreciation of a couple of perverts like John and I.

Then something amazing happened.

John caught a fish.

A big fucker.

It was green and wet (that’s about as far as my knowledge of fish goes, I’m afraid).

After we’d stopped flapping about like a couple of girls, we landed the fucker and John, being the lover of nature that he is, twatted the poor fucker over the head with a mallet and lobbed it in his cool bag. Then, as the excitement dies down and we return to sitting on the side of the lake dangling our fishing rods into the still, lucid water, I start to feel a sense of utter serenity wash over me. Fishing – not really my thing, but I’ll try anything once. And now, with the cool breeze washing in over the lake and kissing my face, I start to understand what fishing’s all about.

Its about peace. Its about quiet contemplation.

“Spanky,” I hear next to me, as if from many miles away. Feeling particularly tranquil, I turn my head and see-

- John, stood with his jeans and grundies round his ankles, his hands holding the dripping fish out in front of him. The tip of his tiny cock jiggling round the entrance of the fishy mouth. “Blowjob! Blowjob! Blowjob!” said John, in a weird two-tone police siren kind of way.

The King of Comedy strikes again.

And then something utterly bizarre happened.

The fish, which must’ve only been stunned from John’s rather effeminate malletting, started flapping about like a motherfucker and clamped its gob down over the tip of John’s member of Parliament.

John screamed.

I screamed.

John ran round a bit, trying to detach the fish from his bell end. His arms were flapping about now, the fish dangling like an ornate piece of body jewelry, clamping down hard, determined not to let go.

Naturally, being a mate, I just fell about and pissed myself laughing.

Then, after a little more inter-species-dance-mania-erotica, John slipped on the sheer muddy lakeside and fell into the water with all the grace and poise of a fat bastard with a fish attached to his cock.

Naturally, I laughed a bit more.

Eventually, John returned from the depths, covered in stinky pondweed and fish poo. And the fish had made good its escape, disappearing back into the murky water.

I helped the twat out of the lake, “Well, at least that thing was an improvement on your last girlfriend, mate.” I said.
(, Mon 1 Jun 2009, 12:01, 6 replies)
"Watch," I said.

My mate Sean who'd come down from Coventry for the weekend to spend some valuable time in the capital taking in the culture, well, getting shitfaced and attempting to chat up under age Spanish tourists, staggered forward. I put my hand on his chest and said it again: "Just WATCH!!!"

Sean stopped and started to protest. But then I indicated the escalator infront of us - the BIG fucker at Angel, in fact the longest escalator on the whole Underground system, and the steepest in Europe. Sean and I loitered at the bottom of the escalators and allowed all the other revellers wearing their best going out pulling gear to squeeze past.

And the conditions were perfect... just... fucking... perfect...

It was a Saturday night. Sean and I - being tightwad fellas from the Midlands - had been drinking in my flat for a good long while before we went out. So by the time we arrived at Angel we were both already pretty hammered on cheap beer and Morrisons own brand vodka chasers.

"Look," I said, as I kept an ear out for the familiar rumble of the next approaching tube. They always run a shitload more tubes on a Saturday night, probably one every thirty seconds.

And as the tube pulled into the station a great gust of wind blew through and round us -

- and sped up the steepest escalator in Europe, sending every short skirt in a looooonnnnnnggggg line on a merry dance, and - as we were stood at the bottom of this incredibly long and incredibly steep escalator - Sean and I received a veritable eye-bounty of naked pert bottom cheeks; some parked either side of a tiny thong, some in frilly tight knickers, even one or two completely bare arses - we even caught the glimpse of a growler or two as some of the girls were facing the other way, talking to their mates.

And then it was over, the train stopped, the wind died down, and the skirts returned to normal. I think most of the girls were too pissed to notice they'd just given everyone an eyeful.

"Whaddya think about that, Sean?" I asked.

He just stared: "You should work for the London tourist board, mate," he said...
(, Tue 2 Jun 2009, 15:04, 9 replies)

moo ditty.
(, Tue 2 Jun 2009, 4:44, 5 replies)
An Inspector Minge mystery...
This is one of those true stories that sound completely made up, it's also quite long but the payoff is worth it I reckon.

Back in 1991, having graduated during a recession (there's a lot of it about) I found myself struggling to get a job - I eventually found work as a guard on the Underground.

Apart from getting to live the childhood dream of many and drive a train from time to time, the job mostly consisted of standing at the back of the train and opeing and closing the doors. Part of this involves making sure that as the train leaves that no one is caught in the doors and being dragged (there was a light that told you that all the doors were closed but you still needed to check).

While I was being trained, we were told to observe the train as it left the station until 3/4 of the train length had gone into the tunnel before closing our own door, which involved leaning out of the carriage as the train departed and slowly picked up speed. During my training they changed this to 2/3 of the train length following a short spate of accidents on the Central line - guards kept smacking their heads on the wall at the end of the platform (ironically known as the Headwall), no-one knew why and the guards themselves couldn't remember how it happened.

One time a driver got to Shepherd's Bush, heard the train doors open and waited and waited for them to close. Nothing happened. He called up the guard over the extremely rubbish intercom they had back then and got no answer. He eventually walked the entire length of the platform to remonstrate with his guard (a time honoured tradition involving liberal use of the word cunt - a typical example I remember is when a driver asked me to save him one of the many newspapers left by passengers - I gave him a Daily Mirror and he said "Next time, get me one with tits in you cunt"). On reaching the end of the train the driver found the guard lying on the floor of the carriage, unconscious and bleeding from a head wound.

There had obviously been a passenger in the carriage who had opened the doors to leave the train but not told anyone about the unconscious guard. The guard later recovered but as with previous cases couldn't recall how it came about. With CCTV coverage being sporadic and of very poor quality at the time it appeared to be an unsolvable mystery.

Anyways, shortly after this, I passed out as a fully qualified guard and started working on the line as normal. One day, heading westbound from Epping to West Ruislip I was at Holland Park, not long after the morning peak.

The train and the platform were largely empty apart from a woman sitting on a bench about 3/4 of the way down the platform. As the train was leaving the station I noticed her watching me, so looked back at her - as I started to draw level (and as the train continued to accelerate) she smiled at me, pulled up her skirt to reveal, well everything - I was understandably transfixed and stared at her as the train went passed until I suddenly realised what was happening and drew my head in sharply, the tiniest moment before my head drew level with the headwall at the end of the platform.

So I had figured that was what was happening, she was transfixing guards with her genitals and causing them to smack their heads into the headwall.

I reported it, expecting some thanks for solving the mystery, instead everyone thought I was making it up. I only did the job for about eighteen months but that was just one of several bizarre experiences, there was also the North Acton Sniper (who used to shoot out train windows with a high powered air rifle), the naked sunbather on the Chigwell loop and the idiot who threw himself off a bridge in front of our train at South Woodford, but instead bounced off the track.
(, Sat 30 May 2009, 12:22, 3 replies)
Underage homo-eroticism, mumshock, paedo-whoops, strip-dad and accidental PHWOAR
Took me a while to think of that subject line.

The first occasion was at primary school, following a trip to the swimming pool. We headed for the showers. Nakedness was expected, but seeing my mate's angry stonk-on was not. He claimed it was 'the water temperature'. I occasionally remind him of it to this day.

Then round the same friend's house one summer, his batshit-insane mother dashes from the garden through the living room, in the buff, holding a tiny cushion to obscure her wrinkly sex purse from view (unsuccessfully).

Next, some weeks later, I'm lying on my back in their hallway, playing with his dog. I look up to be greeted by the sight of his 4-year old sister positioned directly over my head, pants and skirt round her ankles. Her words? "I done a poo, need a wipe". She had too, as my nose confirmed. I declined politely and called for help.

It gets worse. Sitting in his bedroom after school, we're playing on the Amiga. In walks his dad having just arrived home from work, sweating profusely. As we sat there, trying desperately to save our precious pixellated lemmings from comitting suicide, his father starts a conversation while simultaneously peeling off his shirt, then vest, socks and trousers in short order. Mercifully he stopped at the underpants and retreated to his own bedroom, just as I was about to scream.

Finally, a few years later, working alone in his darkened bedroom doing some GCSE coursework (as he had a PC, I didn't), I glimpse movement out of the corner of my eye. His other younger sister emerges from her bedroom completely naked, stands unknowingly full-frontal for a few seconds and then disappears into the bathroom opposite, presumably to wipe her boyfriend's cum off her chest*

That completed the set. I had seen his entire family naked.

* Seriously. She was a bit of a slag
(, Fri 29 May 2009, 5:25, 10 replies)
A friend
invited me around for a Chinese the other night.

Unexpected Noodle tea!
(, Thu 28 May 2009, 14:22, 6 replies)
Not MY unexpected nudity
cos I knew we were starkers. But ... a shorter one this time ! (Fnar).

Last Christmas day night me and the fiance got absolutely plastered. He challenged me to a game of Drinking Trivial Pursuit, confident he'd win. Unfortunately for him, most of the questions came out as film related, and he's shit at films, and more importantly I'm not.
So many shots of vodka later he's going all for a forfeit he thinks I'll refuse (therefore meaning he wins by default)- he says, "If you get the next question wrong, you have to run up the garden naked. If you don't, I'll run up the garden naked."
I'm feeling no pain (having had more than a few voddies myself) so I agree.
Sadly for him chance picks a film question, which I get right. So has to strip off and do the run.

My fiance is totally blind. He has no sight whatsoever, and he couldn't run in a straight line anywhere if his life depended on it. I'm not much better, but I have some residual vision and it's my own garden we're talking about so I know the route. Somehow he persuades me to get naked and run with him too (fuck knows why - I won the bloody question afterall !) I think we'll be fine though cos it's dark and the neighbors won't see. And we're drunk so it's all fun and games. Heh.

So two fucking drunk blind idiots strip off and stagger out of the back door, dogs barking, wobbly bits shaking, and I try to guide him - running - up the garden path. We giggle like lunatics and run through the frosty night air like a couple of nerks, trying to be quiet but failing as only drunken twats can do.
We get up to the other end of the garden, having bounced off the shed, plants, trees etc, knocking over garden furniture, and turn to come back. The dogs are still going nuts and we're gurning like fools.
Suddenly the neighbor's back door opens.
"Who's there ?" shouts my elderly male neighbor, obviously thinking there's a fucking burglary in progress or something. His missus is cawing from behind him, "Be careful Eddie ! "
We freeze in the dark... just as one of the dogs runs past the pir sensor for my 500w security light - something I had deliberately avoided tripping - which comes on with a firm "click".
And there we were- the two mental blind buggers that all the neighbors don't know how to talk to, naked as the day we were born, and illuminated in 500 watts of glory.
My fiance, having no light perception, says, "Whassappening ?"

The only sound I could hear in the chilly stillness was the neighbor's back door closing with a slam.
(, Fri 29 May 2009, 20:51, 3 replies)
Many years ago...
...and a young MattInAHat had embarked on the great adventure of living in sin with the artist formerly known as Mrs Hat. Unfortunately living with She of the Spectacular Norkage was not the filthy, sordid fuck fest that I had previously envisaged and pretty soon we had gone from liberally exchanging bodily fluids at every given opportunity to the kind of sexless existence usually found on the problem page of the Mail on Sunday.

As another evening was being endured watching shite on a fuzzy portable television, my beloved's sweet voice drifted through the icy atmosphere.

"I'm out of fags. Nip round the shop and get me some"

"Of course my sweet" I replied.
"nothing would give me greater pleasure than to hasten to tobacconist in the pissing down rain and get you 10 Lambert and fucking Butler" I didn't add

So collar turned up and head down against the rain I made my way to the shop and duly purchased the requested tobacco product, all the time hoping that this selfless act would result in my getting a shag. Or a quick hand shandy. Even a quick grope wouldn't have gone amiss.

As I stepped out of the shop I looked up to watch the rain coming down, and as I did so, my vision was drawn to a window. A window with the curtains open. A window with the curtains open and the light on. And the resident of the room, (The young, blonde resident of the room) lit up like a Las Vegas magic show was seemingly getting ready to go out.

I started walking so as not to be too obvious a pervert, gaze locked on the young lady slipping out of her blouse.

"Go on!" my sex starved brain screamed at her.
"Show me your tits!"

And she somehow heard.

Her hands reached round to her back and fumbled with the clasp of her bra, TheMattInThePants suddenly waking up and remembering what he's been missing.

The bra went slack as the object of my ogleing succeeded in freeing herself from her clothing....

At the exact same moment the the side of my face came into rather abrupt halt against the previously unnoticed lamp post thoughtfully left in my path and leaving me with a rather fetching bruise.

"What the fuck happened to you?" asked my beloved upon my return.

"I was watching some bird getting changed and I walked into a lamppost"

"Well you deserve it you fucking twat"

I didn't have sex that night
(, Thu 28 May 2009, 23:15, 1 reply)

This question is now closed.

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