Peter - What's in a name?
Oh, Peter.

I'd met a few weird kids before (and I am fairly sure some of them regarded me as the weird one) - but Peter took the biscuit. The biscuit, the cake and the whole shooting match.

We met one fair September morn in 2000, at the induction for our degree course. I was there with my new roommates, when Peter came along. Yes, he was a tall, dumb-looking arse with a ridiculous smile plastered across his face; but it was the first day of Uni and who were we to shun someone just on appearance? We're Bohemian, don'tchaknow?

Oh, how wrong we were. Demonstrated by Peter's opening gambit:

"Hi 'lads'! I'm Peter. This is my 3rd attempt at my 1st year! I keep having to leave because I have severe depressive tendencies!"

O-kay then. Back away, back away. From the smell of stale fish and chips, mainly.

So Peter ends up in my class for the first year. Joy of joys. Now, being actory types, every lesson began with some kind of warm-up excercise - and one teacher was particularly fond of massage to the sound of whalesong, or some other such hippy bullshit. We were instructed to get in to partners, and I just didn't move quickly enough. I was with Peter.

I lay on the ground, and spent the next 10 minutes trying no to flinch as Peter moved through the massage process as called out by the present lecturer. Far from being relaxed, I have never felt so tense - looking at his face, seeing his eyes close and hearing the gentle "ooh" sounds coming from his spotty gob.

But the pain does not end here, dear friends. Bear with me though, my story is nearly done...

We swapped. Peter lay on the ground, and I set about the unenviable task of massaging him. I say massage, my fingers barely touched him as I hurried through, desperately trying to get out of this hell. I heard his breathing get slower and heavier - and then I heard the whole class go silent. With the trepidation only given to someone that knows something is about to go horribly wrong, I scanned the room searching for the cause of the tense silence.

I looked at Peter.

I looked at his jogging bottoms.

His boner looked back at me through them.

I leapt backwards. It was at this point he opened his eyes. This, I swear as gospel, was his next words:

"Er, I was thinking about my Grandma..." (which didn't make it any better), and he gathered his things and left.

We didn't see Peter til the beginning of the next year - harassing some scared looking 1st year girls. He didn't make it through that year, either.

Length? I don't want to talk about it.
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Fri 19 Jan 2007, 12:33, Reply)