I cant help but read most of these posts as
"I am 14 and a virgin and have never seen a naked woman in the flesh"
( Goatworrier had your mum and she was shit, Thu 28 May 2009, 15:39, 12 replies)

Showers
At home, my bedroom is opposite the bathroom, with a corridor separating the two. The boiler is also outside the shower. Normally, I leave my towel hanging up in the bathroom, and make a naked danger dash across the corridor: the chances of there being someone there are very slim, and if there is it's only family right?

WRONG.

One day, I woke up with a steaming hangover. Staggered into the shower, turn the temperature all the way down (it was summer, and boiling, and cold shower + hangover = feeling a *little* better), and commence washing. I finish up, get dry, and hang my towel up as normal. I then fling the bathroom door open, to find a very bemused looking plumber, in the midst of a boiler repair. A quick cry of "fuck", and I dissapear back inside to get my towel, making a more appropriate exit the second time round.

You'd think I might have learned my lesson, but no. A few scant weeks later, I once again find myself able to relax, memories of the aforementioned incident having faded. Indeed, I've taken to walking over the corridor, rather than running. One happy morning, I find myself half way across, bollock naked as always when a strange man in a suit rounds the corner - and immediately freezes. Given my position, there was no other option. I gave him a cheery wave, wished him a good morning, and continued my slow and naked stroll back to the bedroom.

Poor man.
(Merrep, Thu 28 May 2009, 15:37, 1 reply)

19th Birthday's
It was a pleasantly warm and dry November evening. (I know, hard to believe)

Being without girl friend and In Liverpool with my flatmates (all male), we decided to do the traditional thing for a birthday, and get shit faced on a combination of Jack Daniels and Marijuana (Pleasant enough mix!)

We went to the local pub to take advantage of the local pool table (free if they recognised you, which they did, =D) and the comely young bar lady.

After quaffing too much, as is tradition.

I decided it was time to head for home...*Drink Addled Fug* ....I then woke up in my bed.

Thankfully my companions weren't so drink addled as to have forgotten what I did.

I excused myself politely from the pub, gathered my cronies and started walking home. I breached the front door as one does faced with that solid barrier of an entrance; and promptly started to undress in the living room as if it was the most natural thing in the world, I then proceeded into the kitchen, to take a PISS in the corner, not a small one either judging by the lake in the morning!

Upon my return to the front room, I sat down, rolled a few joints and then went to bed.

All of this entirely naked, while surrounded by my male flatmates, I'm completely heterosexual, so I don't know what the hell I was playing at, I must have been un-comfortable in all those clothes!

I was apparently, not aware of my naked state, and once they finally convinced me I was naked, I apparently said:

"Well, you've got one too so no worries!"

Of course, I don't remember any of this, but it sounds like something I would say and do.
(d347hm4n Fraggin your ass!, Thu 28 May 2009, 15:37, 2 replies)

Dead men tell no tales (but file them under 'gas bills')
Dear Uncle Foxy(Mummy Foxy's side of the family) gave up the oxygen habit earlier on this year. 40 fags a day since he was 12, but pulled himself to a ripe old age even with lukemia on top of that. Did us all proud.

Now, as executive of the will, Mummy Foxy was in charge of going through all the paperwork, their respective duplicates and triplicates, and ensuring that all wealth was distributed smoothly. Being the administrative sort, I offered my services for said piles of bills. Gas orders, food stamps, winning tickets for lotteries he never entered, it had the lot.

Nearing the light at the end of the tunnel, I shuffle into the next brown envelope, expecting another demand for film services cancelled decades ago. Of all things, out pops what can only be carbon dated as 1940's amateur porn. Hairy muffs and flowery wallpaper aplenty.

And many pictures of a young Mummy Foxy in swimwear.

We didn't go to the funeral.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Thu 28 May 2009, 15:35, Reply)

You know you're a student when...
a fit blonde that you've been shagging at night and completely ignoring during non drinking hours see's you in a club and whispers sweet nothings in your ear to the tune of
'take me home and fuck me'
To which you reply
'here are my house keys, go back to mine now and I expect you to be naked, wet as a Wham-O slip 'n' slide and waiting for me when I can be bothered to finish talking bollocks and drinking cheap alcohol with the lads'

So as it turned out; my housemate Jon, who was back at home, completing a 3 day (without sleep) coursework marathon heard what he thought was me coming back from a night out. The sleep depraved idiot, burst into my bedroom and cops an eyeful of my bit-on-the-side preparing herself for my return and a post piss-up poke.

Clearly caught in the act, fiddling with her whimsy, breasts a-pert and legs a-kimber, she stops, looks him straight in the eye and says..'i've got nothing to hide'.

Whether it was Jons lack of sleep, his lack of way with women or sheer surprise, apparently he replied with an aplogetic whimper and scuttled back off to his room to finish colouring in his new car design coursework.

When I actually returned, Jon was only to quick to declare what he had seen and kind of ruined the surprise for me. Nevertheless...

length?...about 2 and a half minutes then straight to sleep.
(Eggstrovert isnt patronising you...honest..., Thu 28 May 2009, 15:34, 45 replies)

Frosted (gl)ass
My office has been in turmoil of late. In a desperate bid to quell a growing sense of disillusionment among the workforce; management thought it a good idea to spunk loads of cash on faffing with the look of our office.

Given the current economic climate they could easily have told us to shut the fuck up, stop complaining and pray they don't start wielding the unemployment axe with wild abandon, but all credit to them for going the extra mile and slapping some paint on the walls instead.

As a cyclist I like to shower when I get to the office, and I imagine my colleagues prefer that I do so too. The refurbishment of our previously perfect shower room appears to have involved throwing all the old towels away, fucking up the shower head so it dribbles tepid water on you like a geriatric dog, and removing the covering from the glass panels in the door.

The shower room sits in a rather busy corridor that connects the where people sit bit with the where people eat and get coffee and stuff, bit. Those who use the shower made a bit of a fuss about our sudden loss of privacy, and those who don't use the shower made an equally pointed fuss about our sudden loss of privacy... it seems no one wants to see my sweaty balls of a morning, and why would they?

I arrived this morning after a particularly sweaty cycle and took myself shower-ways. Upon entry to the darkened room it appeared as though the glass panels had been covered, so I closed the door, peeled off my cycling gear and clambered into the cubicle. Only when I stepped out again did I realise that, rather than actually blacking out the panels, a sticky frosted effect had been pasted onto them instead, meaning that anyone passing and glancing sideways as I bent down to step into my pants would have witnessed a slightly blurred, highly un-erotic and very unexpected view of my rusty sheriff's badge glaring back at them through the frosted pane.

I fear there may be more complaints to follow.
( Moey, Thu 28 May 2009, 15:29, Reply)

Working from home
Has benefits.

I just pasted this week's question to the other half, who subsequently walked in here naked, shook a bit to jiggle the manbits, then walked back out without comment.

I really should have chased after him with something cold...
(mmmm curry doesn't really understand this sig lark, Thu 28 May 2009, 15:24, Reply)

my ex neighbour was a bit of a menace
apart form the endless broken cars sprawled across the driveway, his gaggle of scumbag chav offspring dealing/fighting/thieving their way through the cul-de-sac, and the noise, was his trophy wife and her dogs.
i'd often hear her screaming blue bloody murder at him for letting wuffles, or whatever the fuck her bug-eyed barking rat was called, out into the garden alone.
so one day as i was leaving for work, it was a not-entirely-unexpected, but nevertheless traumatic experience to see this short, fat, dirty, middle aged man running about the close in his slippers, dressing gown flapping majestically behind him like a wizards cloak, shriveled cock flapping and balls swinging round like a couple of pickled onions in an old stocking, chasing a yapping chihuahua round in circles swearing like a sailor.
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Thu 28 May 2009, 15:22, Reply)

I have a fair few of these...
Lets us begin.

Second year at college – obligatory foreign trip is arranged. So off we pop to gay Paris, three coachloads of impressionable halfwits.

For the first week we were three blokes in a room (three beds mind you gay Paris or not). As is the way with most studenty affairs the hotel was tres shite. Our room looked straight out onto a brick wall of the equally garlic ridden fleapit next door.

On our last night we found one of those ‘rustic’ little places where they pass off clumps of condemned horsemeat as ‘steak’ to unsuspecting tourists while sneering at our lack of ability to detect the ‘all you could drink wine’ was being pumped from the same abattoir as the horse steaks were sourced.

Nevertheless we managed to get royally battered. We staggered home with our newly acquired ability to speak fluent French and were suddenly Europeans. As my mum often would say, “its all fun and games now but it wont be this in the morning” sage words indeed.

In the morning we were roused from our wanking chariots rudely. Rudely even by French standards. For some odd reason we had slept through the 7.30 deadline to get our gear on the bus.

I cannot recall such a hangover before or since, even my hair hurt – damn those Shergar Steaks – they had clearly ‘reacted’ with the sensible amount of wine I had sipped.

Staggering out of bed bollock naked with a morning lob on I immediately stubbed my toe (not with the lob on). "FirFuckSake! Can somebody switch a fucking light on in" here I rasped.

I flung the ‘quaint‘ wooden shutters open on the window and squinted out into the bright spring sunlight… something was amiss. Some fucker had moved the wall. All I could see was blinding light. A drumming sound and screeching voices filled my throbbing heed – fuck me this really was a bastard of a hangover.

It would seem I had forgotten we had been moved to another room a few days previous. So there I was in all my glory directly across from three coach loads of waiting students battering the windows and cheering wildly. Thank god I still had a semi lob on.

Naturally I got on the bus to a chorus of – “he’s not the messiah he’s a very naughty boy”

!
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Thu 28 May 2009, 15:20, 1 reply)

Body Combat
This kind of thing has happened to many times I get confused between what is anxiety dreams and what has actually happened. I posted before about the sunbathing on the Costa Brava when the ice cream vendor refused to come over, and I didn't realise for hours that it was because my swimming shorts were ripped from front to back and I had been lying there with my burning cock on display, entire families scattering in fear and confusion. My friend understood Spanish and told me the ice cream man actually cursed me.

But I'll tell the story of the time I decided to try "Body Combat" at LA Fitness, Brighton branch.

Body Combat is an exercise class combining dynamic fighting techniques with all the fun of an aerobics class (or something). The truth is its just dancing about. Its for girls really, and little gay fellas. I'm somewhere between the two, so I loved it.

I was the only man in the class and I enjoyed the attention, but not this time - we were doing an exercise which involved loads of Karate Kid "crane" style high kicks. It was set to "The Final Countdown", and we were getting to the last chorus before I saw my red-faced, grinning reflection in the mirror, and realised that my shorts, along with that useless webbing stuff inside, had torn wide open and my genitals were flapping up and down in time with the music. The girls that had noticed were trying to look away and nobody said anything, but if elephants had cocks like mice, then I would be the elephant in that room.

As the next exercise (stretching to Prince's "Nothing Compares to You") involved bending over and grabbing my ankles, I excused myself before the teenage girl behind me was treated to a real-life ginger goatse.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Thu 28 May 2009, 15:16, 2 replies)

At the end of year 13
The head boy and girl dreamed up various awards. The students then voted which people these awards should be given to. I got "most likely to take over the world". J got "most likely to get naked at an inappropriate time". Later in the day, we were on the meadows drinking with about a hundred people of various ages all around.

He sees the river about seventy metres away.

I don't think I have to draw you a picture.
( MatJ LOOK, Thu 28 May 2009, 15:10, Reply)

Privates on Parade
I spent much of my youth as a member of Henley-on-Thames Air Cadets. The drill hall was the old police station, with genuine cells and a firing range for when the fools trusted us with guns.

On the long summer evenings we had the town at our mercy, and we’d get out to build rafts up by the river, march around the back streets and make a nuisance of ourselves having pitched battles with wooden guns, shouting "Na na na na na!" like demented Private Pikes. We’d always finish with a big parade outside the front of the building as the Union Flag was solemnly lowered at the end of the day.

This particularly balmy July evening saw us in formation on the parade ground at the front of the building. Neatly lined up in our flights, boots gleaming and trousers neatly pressed, the Commanding Officer inspected his troops. Some forty years previously he’d seen off the Bosch with my grandfather in the deserts of Africa, now he was in charge of the pride of Henley’s youth.

It was then that a couple of the lads noticed we had a spectator in one of the old houses, just twenty yards away over the road.

It was the lady of the house, standing at the window, towelling herself down after a bath, completely oblivious to the testosterone fuelled turmoil she was about to cause down below. Being a spotty teenager, you only notice two things in these circumstances and there they were, in all their glory.

Let me, dear reader, piece together my scant memories of what I witnessed. She was around forty, certainly no older, slim build that suggested that she worked out, definitely a bottle blonde and the biggest pair of top bollocks that any of us had seen on any woman, ever.

One by one, squadron members realised what was going on, and the parade became a sea of stupid grins and muffled laughter. From my position at the back, it appeared that the CO was saluting not the flag of our nation, so recently glorious in South Atlantic conflict against the Argie foe, rather a magnificent pair of 40DD bazongas in an upstairs window.

It was at that moment she took her towel and gave both mammaries a vigorous, circular rub, ending with her giving both nips a little tweak. They wobbled like Alan Sugar sitting on a jelly, and from the looks of things, she seemed to find this most satisfying. The entire squadron broke ranks, laughing, clapping and cheering.

She screamed. She dropped her towel, to reveal a bush that resembled a large, black fluffy poodle nestling in her lap and whipped the curtains shut. See? I told you she wasn’t a natural blonde.

The following week we turned up at the Drill Hall to find a “For Sale” sign on the house opposite. Can’t think why. Mystery naked woman, we never knew your name. But thanks for the mammaries.

Length? Bigger by the minute.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 28 May 2009, 15:09, 1 reply)

I had honestly fogotten this incident, until it just popped back to the forefront of my mind. Thanks for that, QOTW...
I must have been about 10ish, and the whole family had been invited to my Aunt and Uncles place for a barbeque.

We had arrived early and everyone was abut doing their own thing: I was playing Gauntlet with my cousins on their Atari ST, everying was great.

It was then I need to use the facilities, so I dashed off upstairs, passing my Aunt and Uncle's open bedroom on the landing along the way...

Unfortunately, my Aunt had decided to change her outfit for the day, and was standing there butt naked, trying to decide which fasionable ensemble to cover up her flabby, wrinkly, whale-like frame; the image of which was now burning itself into my young mind...

I froze like a rabbit in headlights, with that feeling of revulsion that punches you in the stomach, leaving you without the ability to breathe... In truth I probably froze for about two seconds, but it may as well been a year. I dashed away, she closed the door, and neither of us spoke of it for the rest of the day. Or at anytime, in fact.

*shudders*

length? well they were hanging down below her hips....
( theoriginalsteve <this space intentionally left blank>, Thu 28 May 2009, 15:07, Reply)

Woo!
*lifts up top*


*jiggles boobies*


*runs away*



No point clicking on this. It will only get taken off if it wins.

Edit - the post, not my top.
( girlinthehole, Thu 28 May 2009, 15:07, 7 replies)

me and a friend, a few years ago, got into fire spinning
stafs not poi. anyhow, we're out, middle of a hot summer in a park, walking his dog and having a fire spinning sesh. i just finished a burn, he's just about to light up his staff, when a man appears out of the bushes and asks for a light. i light his cigarette, he looks a bit creepy but relatively normal- flat cap, bomber jacket, glasses, mid forties. i ASSUME, being as it's dark i can't really see, that he's wearing shorts.

as my mate lights up his staff, in the flare, it becomes apparent that this dude is actually wearing a pair of pvc hotpants with his cock and balls hanging out.
we told him to fuck right off, and packed up our shit and walked further towards the road.. when my mate uttered the immortal line 'dude.. you had your shirt off when you were spinning right? whaddya reckon he was doing in a bush watching you that required a cigarette after?''


jesus
jesus christ.
*mindbleach*
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Thu 28 May 2009, 15:03, 3 replies)

The first time the ex ever saw a topless beach
was in Torquay, about 1989.

As we strolled along the promenade he collided with every bit of street furniture - lamp posts, signs, concrete bins - for about 100 yards without once taking his eyes off the titties.

All I could do was trail along behind him, pretending I was on my own...
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Thu 28 May 2009, 15:03, Reply)

Skiing in France
With people from various other unis in the country.

I can confirm that there are few better sights than being overtaken by an incredibly hot topless girl while you've stopped for a moment to catch your breath.

It took rather longer for me to catch my breath after that.
( MatJ LOOK, Thu 28 May 2009, 15:02, Reply)

Repost
It was the first night of a trip to Germany and I arrive back at the hotel after downing a shed load of beers. I managed to get all my clothes off and climb into bed.

All was fine until a few hours later when I needed a piss, annoyed I stumble bleary eyed to the bathroom taking my normal at home route of out of the bed and take a right.

The only problem was that I wasn't at home.

I am in fact now standing in the corridor of a German hotel, naked with the door to my room locked behind me.

Bollocks, I thought two doors in my room and I pick the wrong one, and I still need to piss.

The only thing to do was to boldly walk down to reception and get them to let me back into my room.

I spent the rest of the weekend trying to avoid the girl on the front desk who had to deal with the pissed up naked Englishman.
( Terry Oblong There's nobody here but us chickens on, Thu 28 May 2009, 14:45, 6 replies)

I once knew...
...a German gentleman who had served under Rommel in Northen Africa but was taken prisoner during one of the numerous tank battles. Anyway, as a prisoner of war he was used to finding new ways to hide things from his captors. One of his many tricks was to use an old surgical wound he had recieved to his chest as an extra 'compartment'. It apparently didn't cause him pain to do this or maybe he was just a lot tougher than I thought, I digress, one of the few luxuries he kept with him was a small amount of tea he had gotten during the early days of the war in a small French town called Neuvaux Dete or 'New Deet' as he insisted on calling it in his heavily accented voice. He would keep this tea in the recess off his chest away from the prying eyes off the British guards and gain a small amount of satisfaction whenever he could by boiling some water with it and drinking away or sharing it for extra rations and better treatment (apparently British POW guards could be bribed very easily then). Whenever he traded this with the guards they would always rermark that it was certainly Hun ex-pec/tit New Deet tea!

I thank you.
( Funkenschlag still likes dogs more than cats, Thu 28 May 2009, 14:44, 3 replies)

It wasn't what I was looking for
I honestly can't remember what I was looking for, but it wasn't this.

Like many or most adults, I don't didn't bother with the prudery filter on Google. On this occasion, though, all I wanted was a picture of something innocent. I typed in some hopeful looking words, and got some interesting results.

I clicked through a couple to see if the sites were useful.

One result was so spectacularly misjudged that I still feel a bit ill thinking about it.

Because, you see, though I can't remember my sister-in-law's mother's name, I do now have an image of her genitalia that I can't forget.

I turned the safe search on.
(Gravity's Raincoat, Thu 28 May 2009, 14:42, 5 replies)

Sunshine
Today. Devonshire Green. Sheffield.

Young lady I don't care what you say. If you're going to sunbathe topless in the City Centre, then I am sorry it does become a spectator sport.


Length a little longer and broader than before I left my flat.
(kickstandrich last had sex with your mum/sister/wife/daughter on, Thu 28 May 2009, 14:42, 7 replies)

the poor child!
i have a 12-year-old nephew, who occasionally likes to stay at my house, as i'm the cool auntie who lets him eat junk food and stay up till after midnight watching horror films. due to this late-night business, he tends to sleep late the next morning.
this is why, when i woke up at 7.30, i thought i was safe to go to the bathroom naked.
i was wrong.
i walked out of the bathroom at the exact same time as he walked out of the living room(he sleeps on my couch). we stopped, looked at each other and both said "AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRGGGHHHHHHH!!!!" before turning tail and running back into the rooms we had just come out of.
poor boy. if he turns out to be gay*, i just know i'll get the blame.

*not that there's anything wrong with being gay.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 28 May 2009, 14:42, Reply)

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:

"AAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHH!!! THAT'S FUCKING DISGUSTING!!!"

And Phil responding with:

"AAAAAIIIIIIEEEEEEE!!! STOP FUCKING RAPING ME YOU CUNT!!!"

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."
( SpankyHanky, Thu 28 May 2009, 14:38, 16 replies)

Cock Blocker
This story will always remain close to my memories!

About 4 or 5 years ago I lived with some of my mates in Coventry. I had been seeing this girl for a while and we split up, I didn take it very well and subsequently had what I called a "shag drought" for about 5 months.

Anyway, my best Friend (at the time) Dave and I went out to Jumpin Jacks in Coventry (a well known cattle market) after wading through all the tossers with t-shirts and scarves on I saw a couple of birds chatting to Dave. I got talking to the prettier of the two and we ending up going back to their house, bonus! The pretty one went up stairs and after about 10 mins I went to find her, climbed into bed with her and had a bit of a "cuddle" IN WALKS DAVE AND THE UGLY BIRD...it's about 01:00am.

They decided to sit down and chat with us whilst we were both naked in bed. I sent Dave a stealthy text kindly asking him to fuck off, I knew he'd got it when he looked up at me and with a smile shook his head and carried on fuckin my night up. At about 05:00am they finally left the room and one thing led to another and I ended up shagging this bird, FIVE MONTHS OF NO SEX FINALLY OVER.....but just as I climb on top i hear the bedroom door bang open and fits of giggles followed up by my so called mate saying "ERR, I CAN SEE HIS WHITE ARSE BOP UP AND DOWN!" Bit of a mood killer, I decided to admit defeat, put my trousers on and went home, so quick that when I got in the shower I still had the nodder on.

P.S

I managed to get a proper shag a week later!
(rambosilk Liberty for wolves is death to the lambs., Thu 28 May 2009, 14:37, Reply)

Bazza
Went to his house a few times.

He was a bloke who'd once done some building work with Dare who is a sparks, and every so often would phone him up "come round mine, I might have a job for you". Invariably there was no job.

He was Mr Bullshit. Whatever the subject, he knew all about it and knew someone who could "sort things". He said he could sort me out a job in accounting. He once asked Dare if he could get him a prostitute "for a client". He didn't seem to ever leave the house.

He spent his days sat in his room wearing only his underpants waiting for the internet and more specifically internet porn to be invented.

His parents lived on the top floor. I once saw them when I went up to use the toilet wich was black with filth by the way and by that I mean the entire room, floor, walls and ceiling. They looked like a couple of warmed up corpses who had never seen the light of day, they backed away from me nervously.

The near nudity and it was certainly un-erotic occured when he would frequently dip his hand into his pants, have a good rummage around and say "you'll have to excuse me, my hernia's playing up".

In his room were a few items of interest: the stereo that he was always going on about, "cost five grand mate", not sure about that but it did look to be a good one. The other items of note were the two buckets at either end of the sofa full to the very brim with vomit which he would invite you to flick your fag ash into.

I expect he's on the internet these days, could even be on b3ta, gawd 'elp us!
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Thu 28 May 2009, 14:36, 2 replies)

Urinal etiquette
In urination, there are two types of cockholder:

1 - The Peaker

2 - The Exhibitionist

The Peaker barely pokes the head of the old chap out of the zipper, stands as close to the urinal as possible, seldom looks at his works and gets the process over and done with as quickly as possible.

I find this results in splashback.


The Exhibitionist, unbuttons, unzips and removes the whole works, balls and all, stands clear of the urinal, often goes hands-free, pees long and languidly and may even let out a groan of relief.

Altogether more hygienic, dont you think?


The cubicles in the toilets in the office where I work are two side by side.

The one against the wall on which the urinals hang provides a glorious view of an exhibitionists cock as the door opens.

It's all you can do to not look at it.

I looked.

I didnt take any pleasure in it.

The cock is often maligned as an ugly thing.

I find it most utilitarian, ergonomic even.

I must try to remember to look up.

rafter
baz
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Thu 28 May 2009, 14:34, Reply)

My mate
used to have a penchant for nakedness, but always when least expected.

I was sat there on his sofa, minding my own business watching TV while he got ready to go out that night.

I felt something brush my ear.

He had decided to shove his cock
in.
my.
ear.

I wasn't amused. Or aroused.
(Ethelred is watching cheese grow, Thu 28 May 2009, 14:26, 6 replies)

walk of shame
Last summer a few of us were drinking some buckfast on a small pier on the edge of lough erne.
We decided to swim to the other side, which was a brave distance away, but buckfast has the power to let you do anything you want!

When we got to the other side, one of the girls who swam over didnt fancy the swim back cause she was pretty wreckd and was probably gona drown and take somebody else down with her, so 3 of us had to walk 2 miles along the side of a busy road back to the pier we were at.

Did i mention me and my mate were just in our boxers and the girl was wearing some nice pants and a tasty bra with some nice bappage poking out.

We were gettin quite a few *beep beeps* from passing cars, it was good craic etc.. it wasnt untill we passed the castle that my friend pointed out my langer was poking out of my boxers!

Im glad I could use the excuse of being freezing...
(Rated R for strong violence, Thu 28 May 2009, 14:25, Reply)

Needs more insulation!
Not something I've seen with my own eyes... only mentally.

So I still live at home with both my brothers and my parents. One brother's room is below me and the other's room is next to mine (separated by a fairly thin wall).

Now both brothers have girlfriends whilst I have to settle for the unlimited grumble material that resides on the interweb.

Anyways said brothers usually partake in the evenings pleasure of banging their girlfriends at high volumes. This in turn leads to the unpleasant mental image of your own brethren going at it all night. They're not even subtle about it, I'm trying to get some sleep and all I get is "Tom, TOM! oh oh" etc. I'm sorely tempted to get my own back and just blast pron through my surround sound speaker at high volumes to see how they like it.

Then there was that time at a mates house party. I'm being anti social and chatting to a mate on MSN briefly when in flies my friend locking the door behind him... whilst in his pants. Not nude but very unexpected! I bravely step forwards, open the door and shout to the 5 ladies standing there (who were now wondering when Mr. Handsome turned into Mr Blobby with a few extra pounds and a wig) that they take me instead. The barge me out the way and ravage my friend. Two things I didn't want to see that night, my mate in his under crackers running towards me at full pelt and then said mate getting jumped on by 5 birds. Lucky git, why the fuck was he running?

Length? Couldn't see past the cotton and I'm not going to imagine it either!

First post after muchos lurking.
(Dr.Spack Dr. Lepper! What's the worst that can happen?, Thu 28 May 2009, 14:23, Reply)