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?"

*Silence*

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?"
*Nattering"
"Uh, darling. I could do with your help"
*Nattering*
"WILL YOU GET YOUR FUCKING ARSE INTO THE BATHROOM NOW!"


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.
No
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"
(voodo_kinky, Fri 29 May 2009, 12:38, 17 replies)

Not unintentional for me, but…
I used to have a bit of a health problem, namely that I suffered from Bradycardia – for the non-doctors, a slowed heartbeat. Now this isn’t a particularly pleasant condition and the basic treatment is to make your heart beat faster by giving you adrenalin. This comes in the form of an epi-pen.

My doctor was still trying to figure out what was wrong with me, but I wasn’t about to be confined to a hospital for a pretty minor problem – I wasn’t about to die from it! But my biggest problem with regards to this was having to go to the pharmacy all the time to stock up on medicine, I couldn’t be doing that all the time, and there’s only so much they’ll give you to stop junkies abusing the stuff.

So anyway, my (slightly non-PC) doctor gave me a list of things I could do to help instead. I took cocaine, drank Red Bull and ate energy pills like they were going out of fashion. I also robbed stores, held people up at gunpoint, and (making my way back to the topic) ended up shagging my girlfriend on a newspaper box right in the middle of a crowd of Asians. She wasn't having any of it to start with, but once we got into it she was just loving it. Did the trick for the old ticker too, I’ll tell you now. She wasn't best pleased when I answered my phone halfway through though!

There was the other time we did it in the middle of a racetrack, but that’s for another day…
( Rookie You'll have to speak up, I'm wearing a towel, Fri 29 May 2009, 12:34, 6 replies)

I suppose he couldn't help it...
Peteloaf reminds me of this. 1988, college, graphic design course - this also involved doing some fine art, because, as the head lecturer opined "It's no good being on the course if you can't actually fucking draw".

So once a week, we did various bits of fine art - fruit, self portaits, that sort of really dull stuff - and then a life class. Now, our reaction wasn't what most people may expect, i.e "Wahey, hope it's a really fit lass with massive norks".

No. We knew exactly what we were getting - a recently retired bloke, seeking to eke out his miserable pension by coming to the college every other day in order to whop out his 'pensioner's lunch' and sit for two hours in a slightly over-heated room whilst a bunch of students captured, using the medium of whatever they liked, the beauty and grace of the naked human form. Or something.

So, we knew what we were getting. That wasn't the unexpected part. The unexpected part came about twenty minutes into the session, when the object of our study suddenly started to get a bit of a lob on...

It's actually quite difficult to draw a moving object...
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 29 May 2009, 12:17, 5 replies)

Possibly the Last Will and Testament of The Supreme Crow
or How Can One Man Produce So Much Crap?

The "on-topicness" of this post will be, at best, tenuous - my only link being that I've spent an unexpected amount of time this morning with my trousers round my ankles. However, I strongly suspect that I'm going to die very shortly, so I'd like to go out with a bang. So, here we go...

I believe it is normal and healthy for one's bowels to move once or twice a day. Either way, it is certainly not healthy that, as of 10.30am, I had had to run, buttocks clenched, to the nearest porcelain throne four times in as many hours.

Last night, a couple of friends and I went out for our customary Curry Night - that is, we pick a Wetherspoons pub, take advantage of their Thursday night curry+beer deal, and then go for a wander round some of the nearby pubs in search of fine ale. We may have overdone it slightly on the St Peter's Stout, as something possessed us to buy a pack of sausages on the way back and eat them. (For some reason, despite a load of curry, we had beer munchies...)

I didn't go straight to work this morning; I had to pick up a wedding present for this weekend, so I decided to go to the slightly eccentric Spirit & Liqueur Shop in Soho. I thought I'd got everything out of my system shortly after breakfast, so, despite feeling a little bilious, I thought that the walk might do me good.

It didn't. As I got to the Southern end of the Hungerford Bridge, I could feel something expanding, as if it were trying to escape. I had passed the Festival Hall and considered sneaking in there to use the toilets, but I decided against it. No, it's just wind, it will pass, I told myself.

Crossing the bridge, I started to reconsider that decision. With the sunshine beating down on my abdomen, all I could think of was the Ideal Gas Law. What was in my gut was certainly not an Ideal Gas - it was a distinctly undesirable one - but the principle still held that if the temperature kept rising, the gas inside me would keep trying to expand. I feared I would explode like a pigeon that has swallowed a tub of bicarb.

I headed into Charing Cross and breathed a sigh of relief as I saw a huge gents' toilets sign. This was quickly spoiled as I came close enough to read that I required 30p to use the khazi. I checked my pockets and found a handful of coppers which amounted to about 7p. Just my fucking luck, I thought - I dash in here with my guts straining and it's a bloody Poo-as-you-Go toilet.

For reasons best known to the parts of my brain that I wish I could switch off, I started to consider the consequences of just discreetly pissing myself. It's a hot day - it wouldn't take long to dry, although I'd stink to high fucking heaven for the rest of the day.

Fortunately, rational brain took over and propelled me into a shop so I could buy a bottle of water and get the right amount of change. There was no guarantee that I wouldn't crap myself as well, and it tends to give people the wrong impression if you walk into a spirit and liqueur shop at 9.30 in the morning smelling of urine.

The air-conditioning in the shop was blissful in comparison with the foetid air of the station concourse. So relaxing did I find it that I jettisoned a phenomenal cloud of gas, which was more than slightly embarrassing as one of the shop staff immediately turned up next to me to stock a shelf.

With a bottle of water and enough change to go for a civilised crap, I gleefully hopped into a cubicle and unclenched. It was the third time this morning, and it was starting to become painful.

But so relieved was I that as I strolled out of the station, I took a swig from my newly acquired bottle of water and discovered, to my horror, that it was sparkling. I felt my once settled stomach stirring again.

Fortunately I made it to the shop without incident, pausing only to smirk at the Chinese restaurant that had renamed itself, leading to a sign in the window which read "formerly Poon."

It was on the tube that things started to get tense. Oh, it's not many stops from Leicester Square to South Ken, but whilst I was grateful that the driver was going at a fair old pace, I was disconcerted greatly by the shaking of the train as it thundered down the tracks. Let's just say there's a reason why you shouldn't shake bottles of fizzy drinks before you open them.

I made it to my office, stashed the present and ran back down the stairs to unleash what fresh hell stirred within me. I think this might have been the last of it, as my already raw buttocks felt the familiar sting of the vindaloo that had tasted so good yesterday. If Giger's Alien had burst out of John Hurt's arse rather than his chest, then I think I'd know how he'd felt. How can one man produce so much crap in so little time?

I think that my guts have finally settled down, so I can hopefully keep my trousers up for the remainder of the day. If, however, things should start to stir again, it's been nice knowing you all.

And if I do, indeed, crap myself to death, I would appreciate if you'd all look up the minimalist command-line adventure game "Don't Shit Your Pants" and play it in my honour.
(LongJohnBaldry, Fri 29 May 2009, 11:50, 4 replies)

And suddenly there was an arse!
It was a Friday night and a group of us had gone out to our local pub, with nearly all of us being gay, our pub of choice was the gay pub in town. The biggest difference between gay pubs and straight pubs is that straight pubs don't have rather graphic posters everywhere telling guys to rubber up before a shag! It really can be quite revolting.

So we were sat at a table when John the Landlord came into the bar with his Boyfriend and both of them were dressed in leather shorts, a black mesh vest and black Dr Martens. They were off to a Bondage party in town and were suitably dressed. My friend Paul commented that John had a loose boot lace, so John bent over to tie the said lace.

The leather shorts were backless and as I turned to talk to another friend, I was faced by John's puckered arse! The bastard had done it deliberately and Paul was in fits.

Cheers John where ever you are, you were one on a million.
( Rev. Jayneflakes Buy my book, I need the cash for drugs and hookers, Fri 29 May 2009, 11:50, Reply)

Toilet trauma.
They're a close family: friendly and loving; caring and sharing. You can tell from the way they act around each other that there is much love among them, and it once warmed my heart to see it. I would dream of living in such an environment.

And then came the day when I walked out of my friend's room to be confronted by the sight of his naked Dad sat atop the throne; his unfettered, hairy arse cheeks engulfing the seat and his copious gut spilling onto his furry thighs.

I did my best to sneak past without being noticed but just as I thought I'd made it a booming voice yelled my name and I knew I'd have to speak to him. I slunk back into the doorway of my friend's room and did my best to avoid looking at this monstrous public poo-er, but it was no use; my embarrassment meant mumbling into the door frame and he beaconed me nearer so he could hear me clearer.

My responses to his persistent questions were brief and to the point, but each swiftly despatched answer was met with a fresh question. I tried on a few occasions to make good my escape, not only from this grotesque vision before me, but also from the foul odour that was terrorising my nostrils, but he wouldn't allow it.

Then he seemed to shift his weight in such a manner as to suggest his task was complete. "No fucking way" I thought, "he can't possibly..." but he did, he lifted himself from the toilet, unravelled a yard of paper and began to bend his hand arse-ways to cleanse himself.

I didn't wait to hear the rest of his question.

I. Just. Ran.

I didn't go back there for a while. At least not until I could close my eyes without the image of this man cocking a leg to cleanse his arse appearing on the inside of my eyelids.

Even now, sometimes as I relax into bed and give up the fight against the weight in my eyelids, a distinct silhouette will project itself onto my brain and I know that sleep won't be on the cards for another night.
( Moey, Fri 29 May 2009, 11:49, 1 reply)

Another tale from my mate Earl* the same chap from the dumb waiter story
*name changed slightly to protect guilty

Lamentably I wasn't at the party in question as it sounded like a blinder, but Earl himself has related the story to me....

This party was at the large and fancy house of (convoluted bit) the boyfriend of the mum of a mutual friend of ours. This guy was a session musician I believe, pretty good on a bunch of instruments and had some hanging around the place. One of these was a special edition Gibson Les Paul guitar which was hung with pride in the living room. "Don't touch my guitar" was about the only warning delivered to the merry revellers at the outset of the party. This becomes important later.

Now Earl is commonly referred to (in a pirate voice) by saying "Yarr, tis an inhuman drinking machine!" and this occasion was no break from form. Well and truly plastered and with the party still going on around him, Earl passes out in the living room. This more than likely took a very very large amount of booze.

I've heard the following not only from Earl, who had to be told about it the next day, but from actual eye-witnesses to the event: During his booze-enhanced slumber Earl staggered to his feet, dragged himself over to the wall where the guitar hung betwixt two chairs occupied by nubile young ladies, whipped out his womb-weasel and urinated all over the one item that the house owner had warned them not to meddle with; the guitar.

Naturally the audience was aghast, but Earl who was fully in the grasp of St.Ella (Patron saint of wife-beating) was oblivious and finshing up, merely passed out again until the morning when the previous nights events were recounted.

Is it accidental when you whip it out when drunk? Who knows, but I imagine it was certainly unexpected, particularly for the poor girls who had the close-up side view.
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Fri 29 May 2009, 11:46, 2 replies)

I'm not sure why we did this....
...but I suppose it's just one of those japes that youngsters get up to.
There were four of us; my brother, his best friend, my cousin and I, and it happened to be the Summer Hoildays. Being aged 13-14 we had nothing better to do than expose ourselves to numerous passing cars from the safety of the local park, where we could run into the woods and hide if necessary.

However, the stakes were upped - it soon gets boring flashing your arse, even if you did feel the urge to spread ones cheeks a little. My cousin came up with a 'genius' way of exposing himself. Pulling his shorts down, so that both his arse and cock were free to the world, he then untucked his long T-shirt so that they were hidden from view. He then pressed the button on a pelican crossing and waited for the red light. What came next both shocked and tickled my young mind - he starjumped across the roadin front of the stationary traffic.

With every jump,his T-shirt lifted up, exposing his tiny penis as it flapped wildly, the movement it made reminded me of that a worm makes when it's cut in half. His tiny sack slapped around the top of his thighs and his scrawny arse shone, reflecting the sunlight. However, the thing I remember most vividly was just how happy he was with himself. Smiling, almost gurning, with delight.

Every pelican crossing I get to now, I always remember him doing this.
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Fri 29 May 2009, 11:35, 1 reply)

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.
(SonoraAeroClub "OH SWEET HELEN OF BALLS!", Fri 29 May 2009, 11:27, 6 replies)

Sleepwalking

I occasionaly suffer from sleepwalking but normally I just stumble around my own room or my own house. I rarely get into trouble. Note - I said "rarely" and not "never".

As a computer contractor, most of my work was away from home so, 4 nights a week I'd be living in some hotel somewhere. On my London jobs I normally styaed in a wee hotel in Finsbury Park.

It was a small hotel - about 20 rooms. And, rare in my experience, there was no staff on site after 9 pm. They all went home and came back in to open up about 7am.

So this one night I'd finished late at work and had a few beers and headed back to my hotel. I let myself in and crashed out in my room. Then I woke up. I woke up just in time to see my bedroom door swing shut and lock itslef with a *click*.

Fucksocks! I was stood in the corridor, bollock-naked, tackle out, looking like the last turkey in the shop. I had no idea what to do so I spent a few minutes quietly tring to push, force, my door open before giving it up as a bad job. I probably could have kicked the door down but I think the oweners would have taken exception to to that.

So for the next 30 minutes I nakedly stalked the corridors looking for either somewhere to crash or something to hide ny bits with. I eventually ended up in reception and discovered the Holy Grail. The linen cupboard! Breathing a sigh of relief I burrowed into the sheets and curled up for the night and went to sleep.

I woke to the sound of voices outside the door. The staff were back. So I wrapped a sheet around myself and stepped out inro the bright light.

They pissed themselves laughing and then let me into my room.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 29 May 2009, 11:21, 3 replies)

"You've sleep-gayed him haven't you?"
Personally I've never been one for public nudity. Little bro, on the other hand, is a different story.

Having spent many years using his powerful sleep-walking abilities to go for a slash in the middle of the night (always in the actual toilet, brilliantly, and not someone's cupboard like most sleepwalkers seem to claim...), the parents departed the country leaving us to fend for ourselves, with him the tender age of seventeen.

Now, at the second house he lived in, the bathroom was in a new location compared to his bedroom than in previous residents. Naturally we all expected him to end up fertilising the stairs while asleep but no, it got better.

Clearly feeling a little lonely one night, he got up and wandered directly to his male housemate's bedroom. Both starkers, in he got while the housemate slept, and - a direct quote - "spooned him ever so gently". It was a few minutes before said housemate realised he was being molested in his slumber and tipped him out.

Of course this event was unbeatable until housemate T moved out to be replaced by housemate B. He woke up one night to find little bro draining the lizard directly onto his bed. With him in it. Casually, with a smirk on his face and one foot up on the matress, hand on hip.

Twice. In two weeks.

He hasn't pissed on anyone recently but did wake up vertical and naked in his girlfriend's 17-year-old sister's bedroom recently at 2am. She appreciated it, apparently.

Length? Lucky for me i've never witnessed it. I'd have to burn my eyes
(MightyX5 living on a small island on, Fri 29 May 2009, 11:14, Reply)

Just nice and random
i'm 18 today
but just to make it slightly relevant, i'm sat here naked in a duvet?
i'm 18 you know
18
yes
'avvvittttt
(Freddles, Fri 29 May 2009, 11:13, 6 replies)

Unexpected insofar as I plucked up the courage there and then to go topless on a beach.
I was on a beach in Tenerife a good few years ago alone and soaking up the sun. Around me where men and women and 90% of the women were topless, this included 100 year old German women with nips touching their knees. Now I'm not a confident person about my body and hate even flashing cleavage but seeing the multitude of bare breasted women around me I suddenly felt like I stood out more by sitting there in my swimming costume on the sand.

I took a deep breath and removed the straps from my costume, pulled the costume down to my waist and exhaled.

It was the most exhilerating thing I've ever done and with the sun bearing down on my boobs, I sat up and looked around. Of course no one was looking at me, I was just another pair of tits amongs many other pairs of tits. I lay there for a while happy as a pig in shit until some bloke walked past and winked at me.

Back up went the swimming costume and I was once again a repressed British women with body issues.

Never done it again and I doubt I ever will.
( girlinthehole, Fri 29 May 2009, 10:59, 5 replies)

how can life drawing possibly yield unexpected nudity?
well, in this case, the nudity was both expected and unexpected.
we were EXPECTING a nude model, probably female. what we got was Dorothy.
now for a start, it was a warm day. the room was small, and already smelt of sweaty unwashed art students. we were hung over to SHIT me and my mates, and about ready to die of dehydration. in walks dorothy. the dressing gown covered what looked to be a fairly average figure, a plain, uninteresting face.. not exactly tossbank worthy.
then the small fan heater was set up so she didn't get cold.
then the robe came off.

fuck me. it was the single most hideous pair of wrinkled, flaccid, spaniels ears i'd ever seen. like a couple of sandwich bags full of warm cottage cheese with a huge dark brown nipple tacked on the front.
then there was the gunt. imagine jabba the hut asleep, but waxy white. the armpit hairs were such that if anyone dared, they could have fashioned a rope and abseilied to safety.. OR they could have just lopped off the bush, chucked it out of the window and jumped onto it, either way. she looked like she's lost about 15 stone or something. as the session went on, the heat got worse, she started to sweat. and i mean sweat, like big droplets rolling down her back. then the SMELL made itself known. this woman smelt like sour milk. it was seriously disgusting, fuck knows where the college found her. it was in one way a masterstroke, a room full of hormone-laden, sex-obsessed teenagers and a naked woman, and not a lewd comment or stifled erection in sight. in fact, a room fo the fastest sketching, most concentraded effort you'll ever see on an art course.
when she got up off the white plinth to re-robe, there was a pool of sweat on it.. with a little..brown..mark.. RIGHT in the middle where her poopchute would be. *shudders*
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Fri 29 May 2009, 10:43, 2 replies)

Naked Drunken Kiwi
This one happened in the same house as that I shared with the by-this-time-ex-gf-and-by-that-time-ex-fiancee-too, featured as the then-current GF who's Dad got an eyeful of my tackle in the previous tale. I was visiting mates in the town and the ex was on a night out with her mates, and I had arranged to crash in the spare room at her place. By this time I had come out and was a fully-functional gayer.

It was about 1:30am and I was back at the ex's place enjoying a quiet bedtime dooby in the backyard when the ex called my mobile asking if I was still up. On hearing that I was, she asked that I remained so and assumed the mantle of housemate as she and one of her mates were bringing back a couple of randoms and she wanted a male presence there to make sure they didn't get difficult. Least I can do, I thought.

So about an hour later they arrived. One of the randoms was a nice enough and fairly cute but slighly odd bloke and the other was this 6-foot Kiwi (fuck knows where they found one in that town), absolutely trolleyed but built like a brick shithouse and also cute with it - very much my type, so I was a little jealous. The Kiwi was 'allocated' to the ex's mate and the ex didn't much fancy the other one so it was agreed that I should keep him entertained whilst the ex went to bed and then ensure that he left without incident.

Not long after this arrangement was set, the ex and her mate called me and this guy in from the yard where I'd been sharing a freshly-prepared toke with him and quietly beckoned us to the living room door. I peered inside and saw this Kiwi, bollock naked, passed-out and draped across the sofa, snoring softly. The ex's mate also went off the idea of some random bouncing at this point and we left him to it, though a few times I considered seeing how he'd react to a rude awakening of a certain sort. The image still gives me a faint trouser tickle even now. I was pleased to note that despite his size his tackle, whilst fairly respectable, was noticeably smaller than mine - a fact that the decidedly tipsy ex gleefully shared with those present. Not knowing that the ex and I were once an item, I got a funny look from the other guy for that one :)

In the end we took pity on him and threw a blanket over him. The girls went to bed and I got this other guy quite, quite stoned before setting him on his way. I had one last check on the Kiwi on the sofa before I myself retired to the spare room. The girls were sharing the ex's bed just in case they needed to raise the alarm should the Kiwi go a-wandering. I drifted off to sleep with a very pleasant image fixed in my mind that night.

I was hoping for another eyeful in the morning but it wasn't to be as whilst he was still there snoring away when I arose, he'd managed to hold on to the blanket we put over him. He stirred as I pottered through the living room and asked what time it was.

"It's just before ten, mate" I replied.
"Where the fuck am I, anyway?" He asked, blearily taking in the unfamiliar surroundings.
"You came here with my housemate and her friend last night..."
"Ah, right" he said, a little confused as most likely there's a girl nearby when he wakes up in situations like this.
"...whereupon you stripped bollock-naked and passed out right there." I said with a grin.
"Oh. Sorry about that, mate."
"Don't worry about it, nothing I haven't seen before." I said with a slightly wider grin.

He began gathering his clothes and I left him to make himself decent, with some small regret on my part. I skinned up some breakfast and offered him a toke in the yard, which he gratefully accepted. We spent about 20 minutes shooting the breeze, or more accurately filling the gaps in his memory of the previous night. I mentioned my curiosity as to what the hell a New Zealander was doing in the shitty backwater that was my hometown. Turns out he was staying with a mate who had moved here years ago and somehow gotten separated from them on a night out, eventually 'pulling these two hotties' (my ex and her friend I assumed - perhaps he thought he was in for some menage a trois action - trying it would have seen him getting his bollocks removed by immaculately-manicured fingernails, so it's prob just as well he passed out) which is where the gaps in his memory began to show. Once he'd finished his coffee and the spliff, called him a cab and set him on his way also. The girls got up a little later and after I'd filled them in on what little they'd missed, they seemed suprised that I hadn't tried it on with him.

Despite my demonstrated honourability, that night is one of my what-if moments. I don't try it on with folk who are smashed as I'm not the type to take advantage, and I don't try it on with straight blokes because it seems too much like hard work lol, but all the same I wonder what might have transpired if he'd had that rude awakening I fancied treating him to. I console myself with the most likely possibility, that being he would have probably twatted me :)
(thatblokeoverthere not quite as much an arsehole as I thought, Fri 29 May 2009, 10:40, Reply)

Displaying myself....
I went on a hiking thing a couple of years back which was organised by some military types (long explanation - I won't bother) and involved staying in a barracks in Wales, sharing a room with a few guys.

Went out, hiked so far our legs stopped working (30 miles), then went to the the pub until the mini-bus could pick us up and drop us back at barracks. That night, we had a barbecue at the officer's mess, which was great. Went to the bar to get my rouhnd in and discovered that Army messes are subsidised to the hilt. Being a greedy bastard, I naturally gravitated towards the Laphroaig at about 50p a double or some similar ridiculous price tag, and added one to every pint order I made from then on.

Naturally, we all got smashed, but I got more smashed than anyone else. As a result, the 3 others I was sharing a room with decided to debag me in the middle of the night (I think they were all public school types, which explains the proclivity towards that sort of thing).

I was just too pissed to really be bothered, or to do anything about it, so I just went back to sleep without putting my shorts back on or rearranging myself.

The lady Captain in charge of organising the whole thing wasn't impressed when she came to check the rooms were cleaned and tidied in the morning and instead found me half-in, half-out of bed with my legs on the bed, my bare arse in the air, and my face in a pool of spit on the lino.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Fri 29 May 2009, 10:10, Reply)

I can never forget

It was a hot and humid day in August 2003. I was travelling to work without a care in the world. To get to work I had to walk along King Street in Hammersmith - a most unpleasant street frequented by drunks and chavs.

As I was strolling along, idly daydreaming, I became suddenly aware of a terrible odour. The smell was a combination of piss, shit and vomit with the unmistakable overtones of Tenants super strength.

Looking around me to discover the source of this most obnoxious smell, my eyes fell open a woman. She was probably in her 50s and has obviously been living on the street for around 49 years. She was dressed in rags that were caked in what was undoubtedly excrement.

Catching my eye she smiled, and then did something that will haunt my dreams the rest of my years. Still holding my gaze she crouched down and gathered her skirt in her hands.

She then let forth a torrent of piss - a gushing stream of urine like a horse on diuretics splashed on the pavement - all flowing from her vagina, her shit smeared vagina that resembled a dirty, badly plucked chicken that had been attacked by an axe. And all the time she held my eye and carried on smiling.

After what felt like an eternity I managed to drag my eyes away from this living nightmare and ran away.

When I got to work I had a wank in the toilets, obviously.
(MrHungry, Fri 29 May 2009, 10:09, 1 reply)

not full nudity
but I was walking down the street on a bright summer's day last year and turned to see a man on his haunches with his willy in his hand, weeing against the wall. That was a very unexpected bit of todge..
( valoukh newsgash.wordpress.com, Fri 29 May 2009, 10:08, Reply)

WILDLIFE PHOTOGRAPHER OF THE YEAR
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-

FLASH!!!!!

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...
( SpankyHanky, Fri 29 May 2009, 10:07, 9 replies)

Grey jogging bottoms!
My girlfriend hails from a seaside town in deepest darkest Devon. They do things differently down there.

When she was about 9 she was walking down the beach one morning with her younger sister. They were going past this bloke sat on a deckchair when she noticed that his trousers were round his ankles and he was doing something *ahem* vigorous with his right hand. Yes, rather than taking his morning wank in the comfort of your own bedroom/bathroom as is tradition this enterprising fellow had decided he fancied a change of scenery and would get a bit of a sea air at the same time.

The girls were a bit confused, but knew that they probably didn't want to get too close. Particularly since he then waved at them with his spare hand. So they both ran all the way home and told their Mum, who promptly called the police. A very nice policewoman told them that if they ever saw anything like that again they should just point and laugh (an instruction she's taken a little bit too much to heart in my opinion but that's another matter entirely).

Fast forward a few years and Liz was walking on the same stretch of beach with one of her mates when suddenly this scrawny bloke (not the same one) jumped out in front of them and dropped his trousers. Taking the copper's advice they both started pointing and laughing. The guy pulled up his trousers and ran off.



Slightly shocking you might think, but the weirdest thing about these episodes is something else entirely. Both of the flashers were wearing grey jogging bottoms. This has given Liz a psychopathic hatred/phobia of men in grey jogging bottoms. To the extent that she can't sit facing one on the bus/tube and has left pubs on occasion.

Being the loving boyfriend I am I find this absolutely fucking hilarious.

She's signed me up to do a half-marathon in September. Partly because she thinks I'm slightly unfit (possibly true) but also because training will give us something to do together.

I'm less fussed.

But to try and show my enthusiasm I've bought some new running trousers.

Guess what colour they are...
(Milo Minderbinder, Fri 29 May 2009, 9:59, 3 replies)

Design flaw
Acquiring a disability is usually a shock and a bloody steep learning curve. But of course there are perks as well, one of which is the RADAR key.

It should be simple enough. Knowing that accessible loos are often abused by members of the public who are not yet disabled, many of these facilities are kept locked with a universal RADAR lock, and disabled people are encouraged to carry a universal RADAR key.

Unfortunately the thought process of the person designing an accessible loo goes like this:
The door must have a door handle on it that is easy to grip and manipulate for someone who may have trouble using their hands.
The door must have a lock on the inside, ditto.
We can't just use the cheap bolts we used on the regular loos.
Hey, we already have a RADAR lock to put on this door.
It will be okay to just put the RADAR lock on this door, and then the door will lock and everyone's happy.

And misses the bits that go:
But the point of a RADAR lock is that it can be unlocked from the outside.
By any one of the 10.8 million disabled people in the UK.
Or any one of the not-yet-disabled people who have got their hands on a key for whatever reason.
All of whom will be expecting the door to be locked when it is vacant.
The RADAR lock has no "vacant/engaged" indicator.

It's therefore good etiquette to knock on the door and wait a moment before unlocking an accessible loo with a RADAR key, but, when you've got to go, you don't want to sit outside for a full ten minutes "just in case" the loo is occupied.

Generally speaking, if someone needs to use the accessible loo, it takes them more than a few seconds for them to stand up and rearrange their clothing and as a result, in the last four years I have seen a disturbing number of grannies and grandads with their pants around their ankles and, on occasion, mid-stream...

*shudder* Scarred for life, I tell you. But that's not the worst bit. The worst bit is that you still need to go, and there's generally only one accessible loo within distance, so once you've slammed the door in horror, you have to wait. Wait in bladder-busting discomfort to come face-to-face with the person whose most private business you have just disturbed. Not nice. Not pleasant. It doesn't help that the seat's pre-warmed either - not when you've actually seen the arse that did it.
( Batsgirl, Fri 29 May 2009, 9:55, 6 replies)

The day a prospective father-in-law met LittleBloke
This was years ago, when I was still on the straight side of the fence and living with a girl in a house we'd bought together. I was about 25 at the time.

It was Saturday morning, and being Saturday morning I was lounging about in my bathrobe as usual, playing Command & Conquer in the spare room/study. The GF's Dad had come around to do some work on some bit of the house, as he was the Obi-Wan of household fixy-uppage and I was singularly crap at it.

He needed to ask a question or three and the GF was in the shower so he shouted to me from the bottom of the stairs so I squatted on the landing to answer his queries. I didn't notice straight away that he had stopped looking directly at me and was concentrating with some intensity on his hand resting on the banister at his end.

The GF walked up behind him at this point, having just come out of the shower. I finally realised something was amiss when her jaw dropped and her eyes went wide as she looked up the stairs at me. Her Dad made his excuses and carried on with his work and she rushed up to me whispering 'For fuck's sake, stand up you doughnut!'

It seemed that I'd been squatting there for a full five minutes with LittleBloke and his two friends hanging down in plain view between my legs, set off perfectly by the light of our bedroom window directly behind me. Grinning at my embarassment and her Dad's, she chucked some boxers at me and told me to cover myself up.

Of course, I've shown my equipment to a few blokes since, but those times were intentional and more rewarding in many ways. Still, her dad couldn't look me in the eyes for months - don't see why, with hindsight - after all, my dick isn't on my head.*

* Comments to the contrary are unwelcome, but not entirely unheard of.
(thatblokeoverthere not quite as much an arsehole as I thought, Fri 29 May 2009, 9:48, Reply)

Playground rape and violation
A few years ago at the age of 16, a few of my friends and I were sitting in a playgroud late at night, guzzling cheap cider.

My mate Craig was sitting on a swing (the type with the chains)spinning himself round as you do, winding the chains round each other and getting higher and higher. He let go, so the swing started spinning the other way.

What happened next will make me laugh forever. His combat trousers caught in the links of the chain, as the spinning increased in speed, so did the rate at which his trousers were demolished, wound up and torn from his body. He lost his balance and was flailing horizontally to the swing. As the spinning stopped, he was thrown clear, with his todger on full display to a crowd of about 15 girls and boys.

Length? The boy was well endowed, let's put it that way.
(Sir General ***WoW***, Fri 29 May 2009, 9:41, Reply)

Way back when I first moved to London, my local was a gay pub
Being really close to the flat, I would often pop in there after work to meet my housemate who would arrive on his 750cc Yamaha in full leathers, we'd have a pint and then I'd jump on the back with my arms tight around his waist, long coat flapping behind me, and we'd rip off around the corner. And then park, because we really did live that close.

Anyway, one night I was in their toilets, having a wee, as is normal. An old guy in a flat cap came in and took up a position next to me, and after a while I realised that he wasn't weeing. He gave a little grunt, and casting my eyes south-east, I realised he was having a wank. Now despite being young and inexperienced at this point, I realised that making a fuss over a guy having a wank next to me in the toilets of a gay pub probably wouldn't go down too well, so I did the polite thing, finished weeing and left him to it.

The coda to this story is that earlier this year, I was chatting to a couple of friends and mentioned that I used to drink there. "Us too!" they exclaimed. After relating the above story, they both laughed and said in unison "John!"...it turns out he was well known for his toilet-wanking antics.

Length? A lot longer than mine at the time...
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Fri 29 May 2009, 9:33, Reply)

Definitely unerotic but ultimately satisfying
Somewhere in the South West of England, late 80s, there is a cliff side littered with chalets, scrubby plants and faintly disturbing residents. My uncle, due to 'unforseen circumstances' ie. his Mrs had black-bagged him, ended up living here for a while. Spending his days drinking, fishing and hanging around with his pals in the sun agreed with him so he got to know the area quite well.

On one such sunny afternoon, he was looking after his two young daughters who were happily playing in the garden while he fished for dinner from the rocks a few hundred yards away, further down the slope. A friend of his who was fishing alongside suddenly grabbed his arm and pointed out a stark bollock naked gentleman steathily making his way through the scrub (no mean feat in his condition), towards said garden.

Dropping his fishing gear, uncle started up the slope. Realising that the naked chap would get to his garden before he could, he decided to match stealth with stealth and use his local knowledge of the cliff paths to ensure that at least he would have a chance of confronting him before he legged it.

Mr Naked approached the garden, his 'excitement' plain for all to see. Before he could utter a word he was interrupted by a raging bull of a man dropping in between him and the girls from the garden above.

Did I mention my uncle had been a boxer in a past life?

You can probably imagine the surprise and horror on the perv's face just before it was swiftly and permanently rearranged. Not sure what happened to him afterwards, but I imagine he might have been subject to a more rapid descent down the cliff path than is considered healthy before anyone called the emergency services.

My cousins, who were unharmed if slightly perplexed and a little more worldly wise than before, apparently spent the afternoon happily bankrupting the tooth fairy to the regular cry of "Daddy, I found another tooth!"
(DownhillGardener no-one does it like that anymore, Fri 29 May 2009, 9:27, 3 replies)

*insert random place here*
*mention expedition of some kind*

*encountering strangers and befriending them*

*talk of a gathering and a song*

*god awful pun about a "new ditty"*

*shit joke about distance*
(British Steel was participating in awesomeness on, Fri 29 May 2009, 8:51, 5 replies)

Peter
My ex co-lodger is an Australian and a pisshead.

Returning home early after an orgy of drunkeness and susbstance abuse, Peter totters home long after everyone else has gone to work.
He walks straight it, forgetting to deactivate the alarm and goes straight to bed.

The alarm goes off, Peter remains in bed
The alarm company ring the house, no answer
The police and the keyholder are called.
The keyholder is the elderly grandmother of the family that owns the house.

The police and Granny enter the house and the police check all the rooms to see what has triggered the alarm and to see if there is anything missing. A worried Policeman then tells Granny that they
'Have found someone upstairs'

Granny then follows the police upstairs where Peter, naked, hungover, vomitcovered and sobbing is being held up by two burly Bromley Policemen.

I have no sympathy for the fucker - on another occassion he pissed all over himself whilst sleeping in my parent's house.
( WormuIus, Fri 29 May 2009, 8:50, Reply)

*strums banjo*
You'd think, having worked as a window cleaner for a year or so, I'd be full of tales of flashes of flesh through soapy panes. Unfortunately, that's not the case, but the one and only story I have does bear repeating.

It was a typical late-summer's Friday afternoon. I'd been hurtling around villages and up and down the ladders since the early morning and had a couple of jobs left before I could sup my celebratory weekend pint.

I pulled up at a new job - one of thirty new-builds in the small village I'd spent the last couple of hours in. My boss'd been out to price it up a couple of days before, and I'd been left with the unenviable job of the first clean.

I got my stuff together, gave the front door a knock to see if the customer was in and got the ladder ready while I waited. There was no movement at the door so I went on my customary nose-around the house and garden, checking for tricky spots and ladder footings.

I'll interrupt the story here to tell you why I think window cleaners don't see much unexpected nudity: aluminium ladders make a fucking racket when you set them up, giving residents plenty of warning that someone's about to check out their decor.

I set the ladder up at the first upstairs window, checked my gear and climbed up. As I approached the cill, I heard the strains of Christina Aguilera or Pink or some such forgettable pop drifting down from the upstairs of the house. I put my earphones in and drowned it out with some equally forgettable Incubus.

With the first window cleaned, I descended the ladder, moved it along to the next window and climbed up, preparing to wet the panes.

This is when I saw her. She was side-on to me, naked apart from some black ankle socks, her dark blonde hair flowing across her back and the pillows of her bed. Her position was such that she was turned away from me slightly, giving me a nice view of her bottom. No, no open-crotch views, no heaving breasts, just an attractively-shaped young lady obviously pleasuring herself in her room.

We all know that, given this situation, we should avert our eyes and respect the privacy of others, but I was completely hypnotised. The vision of this pretty body having a quick fiddle pressed all my buttons.

She seemed to be working up to the inevitable conclusion. She was working harder and starting to move around on the bed. I was captivated, and had to shift my jeans as the erotic nature of the scene took hold. She was rocking, side to side, working up, writhing, and she turned towards me and OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK'S WRONG WITH YOUR FACE?!

She looked like she'd lost a fight with a thousand angry wasps while tied in a hessian sack. She had acne to make Pizza the Hutt blush. She wore braces on her teeth that pushed her lips out so she looked like Leslie Ash after her collagen experience. I was actually frightened.

She gasped, open-eyed, and shot off into another room. I soaped the window, squeegied, wiped the cill and daydreamed about that pint.
( Noeli overtheshoulderboulderholderthingstraplatchboobs, Fri 29 May 2009, 8:48, 5 replies)