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This is a question "You're doing it wrong"

Chthonic confesses: "Only last year did I discover why the lids of things in tubes have a recessed pointy bit built into them." Tell us about the facepalm moment when you realised you were doing something wrong.

(, Thu 15 Jul 2010, 13:23)
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This question is now closed.

Married women & saying the wrong thing.
Not all married women, just the few that I have been involved with, each time it was a complete disaster. I don't know why but I have always said the worst thing that completely fucks it up.

This is a long one but I have to get it off my chest as I cant tell my friends due to some of them knowing the other people involved.

Lisa was a woman I worked with for a few years when I was in my mid twenties, we got on well but nothing ever went beyond mild flirting as she was married. I did have crush on her, she looked a bit like a dirty(er) Martine McCutcheon, she also gave the impression of being filthy in bed, She moved on to a new job after a couple of years and that was that.

Four and a bit years later I bumped into her in town, we had a chat and decided to go for a drink, one drink lead to two, two lead to three and so on. Over the course of the evening we talked about the usual stuff, as the night wore on she told me that she had divorced her husband and was now married to another guy who we both had worked with (a total cunt btw), I said sorry about the divorce but good that she had someone new (didn't mention him being a cunt). Now at this point I would like to point out that I was not on the make, it was just nice to catch up.

So we leave the pub slightly less sober than when we entered and I escort her to a taxi, as we walk we swap numbers and promise to keep in touch. I hail a taxi and say goodnight, she leans in for a hug and a kiss on the cheek, then you know what happened next, everyone has been there - a slight brush of cheeks then a bit of a pause as we looked into each others eyes, then we started kissing like two frantic teenagers. This was rudely interrupted by the bastard taxi driver beeping his horn, we stopped and Lisa looked shocked, she said sorry got in the taxi and drove off, leaving me with an erection harder than a diamond.

On my way home I ponder what to do, should I leave it alone? should I send a text saying don't worry it was just the drinks we had? should I take the blame and say it was my fault? No I decided that I desperately wanted to bang her back teeth out so I was going to call her! No need, the following day she text-ed me and we arranged for her to come over to mine the following night, this lead to some fairly hectic shagging.

Over the next few months we went at it like primates whenever we got the chance, it became clear that her new husband was not bothered about her not coming home some nights, I didn't worry about that as I was just enjoying the fact that I had been correct, she was utterly filthy in the sack. this is what brought about the downfall.

During one of our sessions I was providing Lisa with manual stimulation when the opportunity arose to take it a little further, there is no polite way to say it so I will be blunt, I fisted her. This was a first for her (not for me, thats another QOTW) and after a moment of adjustment she grabbed my wrist and urged me to go for it. From there on she went wild, lets just say that after about ten minutes she was very satisfied & very tired.

So I try to take my had out of her, this causes another spasm, she looked and me and said she was too tired and she couldn't handle (pardon the pun) anymore, so I asked her to relax so I can have my hand back, second attempt to remove my hand results in her clamping down on my wrist like a vice. Every time I try to pull my hand out she has another orgasm, this leaves her whimpering and both of us laughing.

The laughs stopped after about five minutes of my hand being stuck, she had reached the point were any movement was too much and yet there was no way to get out. I'm sure at some point in your life you have had your hand stuck in something and you will remember the felling of mild panic that the situation incurs. Now imagine if instead of a vase or a drain your hand is in a woman.

I was trying to think of how to fix things when I remembered an episode of the simpsons when Homer gets his hand stuck in a vending machine and sees himself twenty years in the future dragging around the vending machine with his hand still stuck inside. I started to laugh, understandably Lisa was not finding anything funny, she asked what the fuck I was laughing at? now this is what I mean by doing it wrong, instead of comforting words or even just saying nothing, I replied " no don't worry its not you, I was thinking of Homer Simpson".

I think I knew straight away it was the wrong thing to say, this was reinforced by Lisa screaming "get your fucking hand out of me!" There followed several minutes of silence before the release of my hand could be effected.

So married women, trust me I am definitely doing it wrong.
(, Thu 15 Jul 2010, 16:25, 11 replies)
Broken Britain
After reading in the Sun that Britain was all broken and that, I decided it was about time somebody did something about it. The thought of Britain being broken had been the most upsetting thing I'd ever heard ever since I found out about it that morning.

"I'll do something about it!" I triumphantly announced to the postman as he delivered yet more gay porn magazines. (I'm not gay I just enjoy people thinking they have 'one' in their neighbourhood)
"Something about what gaylord?" Answered Postie.
I gave him a proper camp wink and went "you'll find out handsome!" and went back inside.

Pleased with myself for two reasons - 1) my new mission (fixing broken Britain, remember?) and 2) I could put another tick on my 'people who think I'm a homo' wall-chart.

The internet was my first port of call in finding out the best way to sort this shithole out. I needed to know what was wrong with Britain first of all, cos as far as I was concerned it was a pretty decent place. We've got Lemsip, swimming, gay porn mags, Peter Beardsley, T'pau, The Crankies, loads of pigeons, drunk people in town centres with tattoos of their kids names on their necks, Canon & Ball, John Venables, Findus Crispy Pancakes and TGI Friday waiters who tell you their names. All brilliant.

A lot of people on the internet were of the opinion that knives were the problem so I started a petition in favour of forks. Nobody wanted to sign it though, so I filled in 56 pages of fake signatures and sent it to Simon Cowell. Didnt get a response. So it was obvious knives werent the answer.

Next I went round my next door neighbours gaff and asked him what he thought was up with the country.
'All the fucking indians mate' was his instant vociferous reply.
I nodded slowly (fast nodding is for schizos and sex offenders) and went off to buy a cowboy outfit. 'I'll sort those Indian fuckers' I vowed, 'how dare they twat up my country?'.

So there I am, dressed as a cowboy, waiting with my cap-gun all ready to go. About 3 days pass and not one pissing Indian turns up?
Where are they?

I just popped indoors to have a waz and write this account of my mission to let you all know how it's going. Hope I havent missed any Indians while I've been here. The sneaky cunts.

I'm not gay.
(, Thu 15 Jul 2010, 20:43, 11 replies)
Having spent a day refelting a shed
with the "help" of my 4 year old nephew, my brother later discovered him playing with his bob the builder saw and hammer hitting things and muttering "for fucks sake"...
(, Thu 15 Jul 2010, 21:22, 4 replies)
I'm Doing It Wrong
Let me take you back to last week's Question Of The Week.


Isn't that lovely? All the nasty shit that's been bandied about on these boards about teachers; it takes a genuinely uplifting teacher to remind us what arseholes we've been on this board in the past.

Well, arseholes, bring it on, because frankly I don't give a fucking shite. By my reckoning, in the carrying out of my job in the past three academic years, I have been called a cunt three times, a motherfucker twice and been referred to - within earshot - using various derivatives of the f-word more times than I care to count. I have been smacked around the back of the head, punched in the stomach and had a pupil attempt to ride his bike straight over the top of me (not least while calling me a 'fucking tramp' after knocking me to the ground). Two of my colleagues have retired because of injuries caused by pupils.

I work but a forty-hour week, but am expected to account for thirty of those hours in precise intervals of five minutes on demand. Can I just put this godawful fucking proposal in front of anyone else with a job, please? Would you be able to produce a detailed schedule of what you did between 10:05 and 10:55 yesterday morning and detail what it actually achieved? This is becoming the fucking norm for teachers.

I am expected to teach elementary chemistry to pupils who cannot read and write; detailed chemistry to pupils who cannot reason abstractly; and advanced chemistry to pupils who cannot even perform simple fucking mathematical calculations such as division (actually - much of this is not true. I spend so much time instructed to teach pupils to behave, write, add up, exercise social skills and answer exam questions, that I don't actually get round to teaching much Chemistry at all). The former two-thirds will happily admit that they do not give a shite about learning a compulsory subject because they are going to work for their father for the rest of their foreseeable lives. They will thereafter perform their best impressions of howler monkeys in all lessons, thereby rendering any able pupils in their class unable to progress. If they tire of that, they will throw things at me, steal anything they can lay their hands on, or just sit and ignore me while listening to music on their iPhones. Electronic appliances which I am no longer allowed to confiscate under some fucking namby-pamby 'Every Child Matters' ruling. If you think I'm being blithe about ECM, let me tell you that some of the nicest, most genuine and mature children I've taught have come from families that quite frankly do not give a holy shite. And that fucking breaks my heart.

Additionally, over the last few months I have been planning a colleague's lessons (on top of my own) because she is long-term ill; determining set lists because my departmental leader can't cope with it; and demonstrating practicals for another 'science' teacher who is not qualified to do so because the department is chronically under-staffed and we are having to draft in members of the PE and Geography departments to teach our lessons. Putting it into some sort of perspective, we currently have five full-time science teachers in a school of 1100 pupils. The average class size is nearly thirty. I have one set of thirty-five, which causes a bit of a problem given that there are only thirty-two chairs in my teaching room.

I'd like to point out that any of the above occurs before any of the Public Sector cuts that have just been announced. I have already been told that I will need to buy the majority of my own pens, crayons, whiteboard markers and so on for the next school year. This with classes who aren't capable of keeping hold of a fucking book for more than twenty hours without reducing it to pulp or sawdust.

On the point of dealing with troublesome pupils, I will quite happily demonstrate that during the course of routine phone calls home I have been called a 'twat', 'fucking incompetent', and - most entertainingly - been told 'Sir, your attitude is crap'. All of this from the progenitors of the aforementioned monkey-howlers that I am expected to educate.

It might be worth, at this point, illustrating that I feel that after six years teaching at the school I have acquired a degree of respect from the pupils. This is merely because I have acquired the skills to make a class sit in quiet, not call me a cunt in the corridors, and take my threats to phone their parents seriously.

Whtat really fucking pisses me off is that the school I allege to be my employers will bend over backwards for some of the fucking kids who are spoiled rotten by their parents. They don't get the cane any more, they don't get lines, they don't get to clean dirty desks. What do they get now? They sit in the fucking sports hall and read a fucking book for an hour in the name of detention. This might be bloody great for the fucking nationwide literacy strategy, but even the stupidest of our fucking kids have worked out that this ain't too bad a punishment in the middle of winter when all you've got to go back to is a house crammed with siblings and barely a one-bar fire to keep you all warm.

Why do we mollycoddle like this? Well, about 10% is because of the deprived children above. Totally legit; no problem with that; they're better off with us than they are at home, sadly.

Unfortunately the other nine-tenths are pupils whom we cannot afford to expel because they would be too fucking expensive for the school, and because they have been tested for intelligence and are therefore capable of gaining a certain number of GCSE grades. No question of whether the kids actually want to fucking achieve for themselves - no, all that matters is that we produce the grades to keep the Government happy.

To this extent, we are asked to break exam-board guidelines: make pupils produce coursework time after time until it is good enough, perhaps even writing segments of it for them, with the onus placed on us - the teachers - if it's not up to their target grade.

I am living in an entirely results-driven society, and have produced the best average improvement scores at all Key Stages for all my pupils for the last three years of my teaching.

Of course, I am deemed to be failing at my job. Why?

Firstly, while I had a class of pupils sitting silently and completing a test, I logged onto a website for ten minutes to check the status of my local sports team. I was therefore deemed not to be in control of the class.

Secondly, when confronted with a class of 30 pupils, 28 of whom flat-out refused to work for a full hour, I put the latter 28 into detention. I was accused of refusing (yes, me - not them - refusing) to teach them.

Because the latter class were GCSE critical (ie. might be getting C-grades if we wrote their coursework for them), I have been placed on a final warning. Because results are the important thing, you see? Not the fucking staff who are expected to deliver those results.

Now, I'm by no means claiming that the above two instances were correct courses of action, but would anyone else here think it was a case of putting one's job on the line?

Apparently I'm doing it wrong. And - frankly - I say screw anyone who attempts to glamorise the teaching profession.
(, Sat 17 Jul 2010, 2:07, 33 replies)
Years ago I worked in a pottery factory and I met a delightful bloke called John. Every day John and I would bump into each other and I'd say, "Hi, John how's things?" and he'd reply, "Not bad Simon," or words to that effect. Quite often we'd have lunch together in the canteen. If we'd been gay, we'd have probably ended up shagging. It was that kind of man/bloke thing. Anyhow eight years went by and me and John saw each other every day, had lunch, never quite had sex until the day the axe man cometh and made us all redundant. The factory closed down and John and I parted company. "See you, John," says I. "See you, Sime," says John. "Good luck, John" says I. "Good luck, Sime," says John.

A couple of years later I'm talking to my sister and John pops up into conversation. My sister had worked for the same factory as me and John and knew us both...so I thought.

"You know, John, slightly balding, got a big nose and big teeth. Looked a bit like Freddie Mercury on an off day?"
"You mean, Richard?" sayeth the sibling.
"No, John." After all, had I not been his bestest buddy, his man mate, his "almost if only"?
"His name's Richard, Sime," my sister assured me. "We'd always wondered why you insisted on calling him John all those years."

A couple of months ago I saw "John" again. "Hello, Richard," I said. "Hi, Sime," came his reply, with not a blink. "Doing all right?"
(, Sat 17 Jul 2010, 8:06, 18 replies)
Worked for a kitchen fitter.
I was young.

I was tasked with cutting out the hole for the sink. I marked the hole out on the worktop and then took to it with a jigsaw.

Yes, you guessed it. A perfect sink sized piece of worktop is what I was left with, the rest of the worktop cut to fucking bits to get to the sink sized piece.

Boy was my face red.

Because he punched me.
(, Thu 15 Jul 2010, 15:42, 4 replies)
“You’re not doing it right, let me have a go”.
I’ve mentioned my mate Simon on here before in response to the ‘Most childish thing you’ve done as an adult?’ question.
Now Simon is not an ordinary mate; he has one prosthetic leg (not that he lets it affect his life), and bad luck seems to follow him about. This particular story happened a few years back and is one that gets retold time and time again amongst my friends.

My mates and I would often convene at a local park on a Sunday afternoon for a kick-a-bout, laze in the sun and for a few beers whilst we recollected the shenanigans from the night before. This Sunday was no different, and four of us met and started up a game of ‘Cross Bar Challenge’. In short, the game consists of two teams stood either side of a goal frame. Each team takes it in turn to have a shot at the goal frame, with 2 points awarded for hitting the crossbar and 1 point for a post with the winner being the first to get to a pre-determined number of points.

Fifteen or so minutes after starting the game, Simon turned up, his face beetroot purple as usual and it clashed quite spectacularly with his cropped ginger hair. His false leg made him waddle slightly, and due to his plump nature, was often referred to as ‘Weeble’.

“Alright wankers?”, was his delightful opening line.

“Fuck off Weeble you fat cunt”, retorted Jake.

“Yeah, yeah, Jake. Wind your neck in. You gonna let me join in or not?”

“Nah, fuck off Weeble”. We all started laughing.

“Listen mate”, I began, “We’re only playing first to twenty and we’re already on 16 so you can have a game soon. Have a fag and a beer, we won’t be long”.

Weeble sat down on the grass, opened a can and we restarted our game. It didn’t take long for Weeble to get bored and he soon started commenting on our wayward shots, saying things like, ‘Rubbish!’, ‘Your fucking shit’ and ‘I could do better’. To be fair he did have a point. Our shots were going all over the place and we were taking longer than expected to find a winner.
After I had lined up a pretty audacious long range effort which missed by a good 10 yards, Weeble muttered the immortal words,

“You’re not doing it right, let me have a go”.

“Ha! You can’t kick it high enough Weebs”.

“I bet I fucking can”.

Weeble got up slowly from the ground, untucked his t-shirt and waddled over towards us. I chucked him the ball. Weeble placed it under one arm and walked a few yards back before placing the ball on the ground about 20 yards from the goal. We were all ribbing him as he prepared his run up, asking him if he could even kick the ball the required distance, let alone hit the crossbar.

Weeble didn’t say a word. He made a small divot in front of the ball with his foot and took four big paces backwards.

“Go on then. Beckham, let’s see what you’ve got”, shouted my brother.

What happened next is a catalogue of events that will remain embedded in my mind until my last breathe. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion.
Weeble picked up as much pace as he could and his right leg went back behind him before he brought it forward at speed towards the ball. On impact, his prosthetic leg detached itself from his real leg, just above the knee, and arced skywards towards the goal, spinning foot over knee in the air as it went. His momentum caused Weeble to spin around twice on his standing leg like some sort of dizzy pirate, before collapsing to the ground. We looked towards the goal. Weeble’s leg collided with the crossbar, before flipping over to the other side of the goal. The ball ended up just short of the posts. We were in hysterics; it was a proper crying with laughter moment.

“HAAA! HAAA! HAAAAAAAAAA! Fucking classic. Weeble you daft cunt!”

Weeble lifted his head to look at us from the ground.

“2 points, lads. That’s how you do it”, was all he could muster before joining in with the laughter.
(, Thu 15 Jul 2010, 15:01, 1 reply)
First time anything !

There are condoms available that have a small amount of a numbing agent (benzocaine) on the inside tip area. The logic being that if the love helmet is desensitised then the whole event will last longer.

Anyway, me and the Mrs were using these type of johnnies. Not that I needed them. Ahem.

So one night we got down to the business after a night spent getting lashed in the pub. Compulsory foreplay was soon dealt with before the actual in-and-out stuff began. However, to add to an already de-sensitised bellend, was the seven pints that had been drunk. This had the double effect of further desensitising the already numbing area, and making the bladder full.

After a while of what, for me, was pointless pumping, the Mrs said that I felt a bit strange inside her and really full. I pulled out to find that I was pissing into the condom without realising it. There was not much I could do except grasp the johnny around my shaft and continue the piss. Soon I was stood there with a seriously extended johnny, with a bulbous end full of a pint of piss, swinging between my knees. I tried to take it off but this just casued piss to flow up the shaft all over me and the floor. I had to walk crab style all the way (downstairs) to the toilet and take it off over the bowl. Most of it still ended up on the floor.
(, Wed 21 Jul 2010, 19:16, 53 replies)
A digitally-enhanced kitten is a surprised kitten...
The other evening, my neighbour's kitten, Doug, strolled in through our kitchen window. He does this a lot and we don't mind - he lives with two rather shouty dogs and likes a bit of peace from time to time.

I was about to go to bed, so thought I'd just give him a bit of a nudge back out of the window. I picked him up, gave him a cuddle and turned him round to face the open window.

He didn't move particularly quickly, so I gave him a little shove. Just at that moment, he lifted his tail inquisitively and turned round to look at me, clearly imploring me to let him stay. As I went to push him out of the window, my thumb accidentally slipped into his little kitteny bumhole. What's worse is that we maintained eye contact throughout.

The combined look of surprise, shame and resignation on his face will haunt me for a while. I suspect the look of alarm, regret and disgust on mine, coupled with the searing pain of something shooting up his arse might have left a lasting impression on him too. He jumped out of the window like, well, like a digitally violated small cat.

I scrubbed my hands for the next 15 minutes and couldn't tell my husband until the next morning about accidentally anally raping an 8-month kitten. Doug hasn't been back since. I suspect I'm on a register somewhere now, when all I wanted to do was politely ask him to leave so that I could get some sleep.

Length? Up to the first knuckle.
(, Wed 21 Jul 2010, 17:00, 12 replies)
My father and DIY
By any stretch of the imagination, tasking my father with mere DIY should have been akin to using a wrecking ball to crack a walnut. He spent his working life designing bits of military jets and oil rigs. Armed with this experience, you'd think that getting my Dad to hang a shelf would be like asking Chuck Norris to hang a picture, right?


My father is blessed with the self confidence of a herd of elephants, the patience of a small child and the easy going nature of Basil Fawlty. As a result, such trivialities as a set of instructions or even a cursory moment to check his calculations were frequently skipped, much to the hilarity of the neighbourhood.

I cringe looking back, neighbours must have been regularly regaled with the frenzied cry of "Oh SHIT!!!" being bellowed from inside sheds, under car bonnets or in the general vicinity of our tormented Black & Decker Workmate.

Boiler Room Rage

Incident number one occurred when I was about nine years old. Dad decided that the unsightly hexagonal key used to gain entry to our central heating boiler under the stairs just wouldn't do.

I recall being scooped out of bed by my nervous mother and bundled into the back of the family car for the four mile trip to our local Marleys at some ungodly hour of a Saturday morning. After a thrilling thirty minutes, I was ordered to assist Dad with his project.

After four hours watching his initial chirpy enthusiasm descend into a seething rage against every inanimate object within six feet, Dad had finished drilling into the metal door installed a proper handle. He took a step back to admire his work, placed a hand on the door handle when a deathly silence descended upon the house, which usually meant only one thing.

"Wha... Wha... You BASTARD!"

Oh dear.

I looked at the door and I looked at my dad. The expression on his face was midway between rage and utter befuddlement. His hand rested on the door handle he'd just fitted and he tried again, perhaps hoping his initial assessment was wrong.

Then Mount Etna erupted.

"They've sold me the wrong BLOODY handle. SHIT!" he yelled.

Yep, to open the boiler cupboard door, you had to pull the handle *up*.

Kitchen Farce

Six months later, Dad decided that mum needed a new kitchen. MFI? Not a fucking chance.

Despite spending his working day in front of a drawing board, Dad never bothered with such trivialities at home and simply planned it out in his head on the fly without so much as the back of a fag packet being used to scribble notes on. Sure enough, more or less the correct number of tiles was procured and saws, drills and spirit levels of varying degrees of reliability were produced. Lengths of wood were retrieved from the shed. All I wanted to do was watch Tiswas and goggle Sally James, but instead I was ordered to sit on the wood, hold screwdrivers and saws, not saying a word or moving a muscle while my father intermittently sketched marks on the wood with a pencil, sawed and ranted at the neighbours' children for being too noisy. The bewildering range of aged, rusting tools were dangled in front of my face with the faint promise that I might one day get to use them if I was quiet enough and concentrated long enough.

My mother kept her distance, she'd be told to "sod off!" when Dad got fed up of her nervously dispensed advice like "Oh, I think you need to put a screw in there" uttered at a hushed volume before she fled to the kitchen to brew more tea.

I guess she was desperately trying to contain his rage and placate him. Paradoxically, she was great at dispensing useless and rage inducing advice though, even a mild mannered soul like me cannot undertake any DIY while my mother is around, for being told "You need a phillips screwdriver for that" in hushed faux-knowledgeable tones usually had me grinding my teeth within seconds. Eventually, she resorted to her last line of defence - topping up cups of tea.

By lunchtime, our kitchen resembled the aftermath of Krakatoa crossed with a Greek Wedding. Bits of broken ceramic lay everywhere, in the middle stood a portly, red faced swearing man.

"The BLOODY walls aren't straight! SHIT!" he yelled, kneeling on the floor, with three inches of arse-cleavage peek-a-booing up from the beltline of his jeans as he attempted to tile from floor to ceiling. How he guessed from this altitude I'll never know.

"Shit! SHIT! You BASTARD!" he bellowed as another tile broke.

"These BLOODY tiles!"

The tiling was completed at long last. However, in a manner akin to one of those geometric illusion type drawings, if you traced the line of tiles along the top of the longest wall, the ceiling appeared to have been installed at an angle of two degrees off the horizontal. Apparently this was the fault of the builders for making the kitchen wonky.

By late afternoon I'd skulked off to watch The Fall Guy, but I can still hear the intermittent swearing coming from the kitchen as Dad sawed the last of the worktops and cupboard doors. By 5pm Sunday he was attempting to mount doors onto new cupboards. Yep, a sturdy looking framework and new worktops were fitted. Not bad.


It transpired that we suddenly had three previously unaccounted for inches between the cooker and a cupboard. This had my father in absolute apoplexy for a good few minutes until his genius saved the day.

Having seen the light, Dad wandered off with a saw and produced a cupboard door three and a half feet high by three inches wide. My mother was instructed to keep her baking trays there.

The Record Cabinet

Mum managed to win a small amount of money on the Football Pools. Yay mum! However, instead of treating herself to something nice, the poor, misguided soul did something truly daft in an ill conceived moment of kindness in the hope that giving Dad a new project would soothe his oft volcanic temper.

It was a bright summer weekend; I sat on my bedroom floor assembling the Forth Bridge from Lego. By 11am I was retrieved from my room and sat on a creaking Black & Decker Workbench steadying bits of chipboard as Dad intermittently sawed and ranted.


"Hold the bloody screwdriver properly"

"Where's my bloody tea?"

By late afternoon, the job seemed nearly complete. Despite the lack of plans, the cabinet was cuboid in shape. I was confident, had my super DIY dad managed to snatch a daring victory? It would appear so.

Supper on Saturday afternoon was almost a jovial affair. My mum wasn't a bag of nerves and things looked promising. A bottle of Blue Nun was produced to help the Chinese takeaway down.

Indeed, by Sunday morning, my own construction was coming along nicely. Humming along to the tune of "Relax" which was being played on my brother's stereo, my own Lego bridge was finished. Yay me!

Inevitably, the peace was shattered in dramatic fashion.


*sound of needle abruptly scratching across vinyl*

A blood curdling scream of rage and anguish pierced the air. Birds stopped singing outside.


Then I recall hearing a loud banging noise, the type you might hear if someone repeatedly kicks a chipboard record cabinet hard.

"SHIT!" *bang* "SHIT!" *thump* "SHIT" *splinter*

Startled I walked to the window, and was rewarded with the sight of an overweight middle aged man toe-punting the rapidly disintegrating remains of a record cabinet around the garden. The wood, tools and everything else in earshot were excrementally denounced.

The reason for the destruction? Turned out that Dad had lost his temper attempting to take a plane to chipboard...
(, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 12:03, 9 replies)
'Best get a new kettle, then...'
A girl I once worked in a pub with was asked by a customer for a hot chocolate, one night.

Not having ever made one before, but not wanting to look like a div, she improvised a method, thusly:

- Pour about half a jar of hot chocolate powder in the kettle
- Fill the kettle with milk
- Turn on the kettle

It sort of made a fuzzley noise for a minute and started to crackle and emit burnt chocolatey smoke.

In fairness, several bar-hanging regulars and I had watched her throughout the whole process, and could have corrected her, but we were too enthralled.
(, Thu 15 Jul 2010, 15:58, 7 replies)
One of my finer moments
I can’t remember exactly how it came into my possession, but at one time I owned a novelty green glow in the dark condom with a mouses head on the end.

One night I decided I’d give the soon to be lovely Mrs Ring of Fire a bit of a laugh by placing the thing on my engorged member and dancing around the darkened bedroom. The effect was that of a miniature light sabre frantically lashing out at unseen enemies and we had a laugh.

Must admit it wasn’t the easiest thing to get on. It was thick latex completely un-lubricated, a fact that became only too apparent when I tried to remove the wee fella. The fucker had welded it’s self to my skin. Pulling the end hurt, trying to roll it off hurt. As my ardour receded and my little soldier stood at ease I thought my problems were over, but no if anything the soft wrinkled skin seemed to grip the sticky rubber even more. Water, soap, extreme painful tugging, nothing would shift it.

Still, my plight was nothing compared to that of the soon to be lovely Mrs Ring of Fire. She was laughing so hard she was in danger of death from suffocation. Poor little petal.

“Why don’t you piss it off” she managed to gasp.

Off I trotted to the bathroom and kneeling in the bath I started to piss. Slowly at first, then more quickly the rubber and skin parted company until, with a hot gush of liquid over my lower half I was free.

I was soon back in bed, thoroughly deflated and feeling a little sorry for my self. Things got worse when the soon to be L.M.R.O.F attempted a consolation blow job. Even after a shower I still tasted like an old tyre apparently.
(, Wed 21 Jul 2010, 11:33, 10 replies)
Mistaken identity...
I've been with my boyfriend for ten years, and I always wondered why his mother - Wendy - didn't like me very much.

Last year, he finally got round to telling me that her name is Liz.
(, Sun 18 Jul 2010, 13:13, 2 replies)
Car trouble
I started to notice that often when I took a turn at a fairly slow speed a "gooing gooing" noise would be heard. It sounded like an over-stretched wire, or a spring, and seemed to be coming from the driver's side of the car. I took it into the dealership and drove around with the mechanic for 20 minutes while he listened to it. He finally told me that he'd never heard anything like it before, but "we'll find it and take care of it."

Got a call later from the dealership. The cashier read me the report from the mechanic: "Customer reports 'gooing' sound when turning. Removed half full water bottle from under driver's seat. Sound gone."
(, Thu 15 Jul 2010, 20:55, 3 replies)
rp, but it's a bit apt; inventive thinking dad.
When I was about 4 years old me favourite toy was this walking robot. It stood a tall 10 inches (lol, I typed inches) and had a light display in it's chest. When it was powered up by some batteries it would march forward, stop, then do this light display and repeat the process. Twas not gifted with great variety but it made alot of noise and looked cool.

One day the batteries run out. Robot noise becomes quiet plastic statue to the 4 year old. Obviously the 4 year old wants this resolved, so I bring this to the attention of my father.

He has a look around the house for some batteries but can't find any. So instead he decided to test out something else. He opened up the battery compartment and connected a spare CAR BATTERY to the +/- points in the battery bay with some jumpleads and some wire. All is ready, then dad flicks the "on" switch....

Dad disconnected the car battery but it was too late. The robot had run straight into a wall and was currently burning itself to the skirting. He runs out to the bathroom, grabs a cup of water and soaks the melting circuit person drying it to the wall, a lump of disfigured toy with the smell of plastic death emanating from it.

"Oops....errr...sorry son." says dad, who promptly legs it. I loved that toy the bastard.
(, Thu 15 Jul 2010, 17:29, 1 reply)
Parallel Parking
Tom wasn't bad at parallel parking. He was the worst in my short years that I'd ever witnessed. If he wasn't grinding the plastic hubcaps of his Fiat Panda 4x4 against the kerbstone of the local high street, we'd end up parked so far away from it that I'd need to call a taxi to safely arrive at the pavement without being squashed by an under-taking bus.

Every day it was the same - he'd glance to the left hand side of the car as he reversed into a space the size of Wales, exclaim "Oh for fuck's sake!", and give up, all the while insisting he could do much better, but it was the car's fault.

Parking in any normal space was never a problem... if we went forwards, it was always perfect, and done with ease. But the moment the reverse gear crunched into action, there was swearing, frustration, and a constant insistence that it was the car's fault, not his.

I began to question his ability, his driving instructor's aptitude, and his driving examiner's sanity for granting him the gift of thundering along the road with such an apparent lack of spacial awareness.

Until one day, when we both jumped into his car, on a very everyday voyage to not losing our virginities due to cruising the streets in a diarrhea-brown clapped out death wagon. I sat in the passenger seat, and as I always did, toyed with the passenger side wing mirror until it was in the correct position. Except, this was the first time Tom had ever noticed me do it.

"It's YOU!" he screamed, accusingly. "You're the one who's doing it!"

I was shocked at his tone.

"Why are you messing up the mirror? I thought it was loose or something!"

Completely oblivious to the problems I was causing, aged 16 and knowing the sum total of fuck all about operating a motor vehicle, I replied matter of factly:

"It's the passenger side wing mirror, Tom. I'm the passenger. I'm adjusting it so that I can see what's behind us too. Duh!"

Oh. His parking improved after he pointed out my error, firstly with a lot of swearing, followed by weeks of piss-taking.

No apologies for length, but apologies to passing motorists for width.
(, Sat 17 Jul 2010, 2:16, 2 replies)
Just remembered another one
One of my friends used to bring her lunch in to work with her every day; usually a sandwich, a yogurt, and a couple of slices of melon.
One week, she mentioned a few times that she'd purchased a particularly shit melon, which was tasteless and not very juicy.
On about the Thursday, she came in to work and told us she'd discovered why her melon wasn't very nice: it was in fact a pumpkin :D
(, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 16:20, 5 replies)
People who don’t take marriage seriously; “YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG!”
A few years ago when I was in my late 20’s I went through that stage where all your friends get married. Now that I’m in my early 30’s I seem to be going through that stage where all your friends get divorced. I hear such piss poor excuses. Lets hear some of them:

“I thought I would feel differently after we were married” – Really? You thought there would be a magical change in your relationship after a wedding ceremony?

“I knew he/she wasn’t the one when we got married” – *Facepalm* Well genius, perhaps that was a sign that YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE GOT MARRIED!

“I wanted to have children and raise them in a stable family” – How’s that working out for you dipshit?

“I wanted my special day” – You stupid self-centred twat, you wasted all that time and money just so you could be the centre of attention for ONE DAY. Give me my present back.

“We were too young to get married” – YOU WERE 24! There are 18 year olds fighting a war in Afghanistan, THAT’S young.

“Well it was either get married or split up” – What did you do, flip a coin? Heads we marry, tails we’re idiots?

Some of these people are actually going to marry AGAIN. I have already told one of my mates that I don’t want to be his best man again, he actually had the gall to act a bit hurt, but not as hurt as his ex was when he divorced her for not being “the one”.
(, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 10:46, 36 replies)
Geriatric geek guidance
Now I'm a geek. I'm proud of the title and I've worked in the IT industry for nearly 20 years. But until recently to our mum my job description was “he does something with computers.”

But in recent years she'd been thinking about upgrading from her Amstrad PCW (I'm not kidding) to something that would allow her to use “some of the internets,” as she'd heard you could play bridge online. Mum is to bridge what women are to Warren Beatty's fingers. So for her 60th I gave her a laptop. We don't go big on presents in our family, £20 maximum, but I'd upgraded and had enough doorstops so why not?

There was one problem, Ihadn't used it for a while and couldn't get the sound to work on the thing. The sound card seemed to be working, so I replaced the drivers. No joy. Spent a few hours (and a few beers) running diagnostics to check that the thing really was functioning and they came back all clear. Had another beer and decided on the Aliens Approach and just wiped the system and reinstalled from scratch. Call it an hour's work, with that again updating all the software. Would it play? Would it buggery.

So eventually I ran out of time and had to give it to her crippled. She was still thrilled to get a laptop but the failure rankled. What was I doing wrong?

The next night I got a call from mum.

“I've solved that sound problem by the way,” she faux-casually dropped into the end of a 15 minute monologue on her calendar of events for the next month and previous fortnight. I'm usually on autopilot by this time, or carrying on a game of Civ2 on mute, but that statement was the mental equivalent of a high pressure hose up the jacksie.

“How,” I spluttered.

“There's this little volume knob on the side and it was turned down. I'm surprised you missed that, working with computers and all,” came the oh-so smug response.

There are faceslap moments and then there are the other times when you just want to headbutt the nearest wall until sweet oblivion comes. For every Christmas ever after we have a new tale of the geek who did it wrong.
(, Thu 15 Jul 2010, 18:30, 4 replies)
During a conversation about reading on the loo
a friend's husband said "I can never do that. You can't stay balanced for long enough to make it worth-while." Cue many confused looks from the others at the table as they asked what he meant. He expanded his explanation with "Well, you get cold up against the porcelain if you actually sit down on it." More confusion and demands for clarification.

It transpired that as a small child he had somehow been given the impression that toilet-seats were for the exclusive use of women and no self-respecting man would dare set his buttocks on one so he either squatted or balanced his backside on the rim of the toilet bowl. So deep-rooted was this conviction that he took some serious persuasion before he would accept that all the men who said they made use of them daily weren't just trying to wind him up.
(, Thu 15 Jul 2010, 16:15, 2 replies)
golddust just reminded me
of a very embarrassing microwave incident involving cider, underwear and a sleeping bag.

whilst babysitting one night, many years ago, a friend of mine called to keep me company. she'd also brought a large bottle of scrumpy to keep us company, too. now, being a responsible(yeah, right) babysitter, i'd set myself a 2-drink limit. being a teenager, however, these drinks were served in pint glasses. it was a warm night, so the first pint was downed very quickly and hit my bladder just as quickly. as i stood up to go and relieve myself, my friend michelle said "what do you think of my new perfume?" and sprayed me in the face with the damn stuff.
i sneezed, hard.
my bladder, already on a hair-trigger, couldn't hold on any longer and i proceded to piss my pants.
after she'd stopped laughing, michelle offered to run round to my house and pick me up some clean underwear and leggings. unfortunately, it being a saturday night, nobody was home. i didn't have a key, either, so we decided the best thing to do would be to wash my knickers and leggings in the sink, then dry them in the microwave.
oh, how i wish the woman i was babysitting for had had a drier.
within about 30 seconds of putting my clothes in the microwave, the house was filled with an horrendous burning smell. rushing to the kitchen, i was just in time to rescue the legs of my leggings, as the gusset and top part melted, along with my knickers.
it was at this point that michelle decided it was time for her to go home, the bitch.
when diane, who i was babysitting for, finally arrived home, it was to find me sitting in a sleeping bag and feeling very sorry for myself. as she was much thinner than me back then and had no clothes to lend me that would fit, i had to hop home in that fucking sleeping bag. when my mum opened the door, she took one look at me and said "i don't even want to know."

length? right down my fucking leg.
(, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 18:32, Reply)
I Rang Directory Enquiries...
A miserable Scottish call-centre donkey answered.

'Name?' she asked.

'Um, IChewCandlewax.' I said.


'1 Bengal road...'

At this point sheer the number of collapsing red-faced office colleagues alerted me to my error. Too embarrassed to own up to the phone-donkey, I sheepishly continued to try find out my own home phone number. Then I hung up.

My boss called me a Spazz and threw a used teabag at me.
(, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 14:55, 4 replies)

Online computer users often engage in what is affectionately known as
"cybersex". Often the fantasies typed into keyboards and shared through
Internet phone lines get pretty raunchy. However, as you'll see below, one
of the two cyber-surfers in the following transcript of an online chat
doesn't seem to quite get the point of cybersex. Then again, maybe he

Wellhung: Hello, Sweetheart. What do you look like?

Sweetheart: I am wearing a red silk blouse, a miniskirt and high heels. I
work out every day, I'm toned and perfect. My measurements are 36-24-36.
What do you look like?

Wellhung: I'm 6'3" and about 250 pounds. I wear glasses and I have on a
of blue sweat pants I just bought from WalMart. I'm also wearing a T-shirt
with a few spots of barbecue sauce on it from dinner... it smells funny.

Sweetheart: I want you. Would you like to screw me?

Wellhung: OK.

Sweetheart: We're in my bedroom. There's soft music playing on the stereo
and candles on my dresser and night table. I'm looking up into your eyes,
smiling. My hand works its way down to your crotch and begins to fondle
huge, swelling bulge.

Wellhung: I'm gulping, I'm beginning to sweat.

Sweetheart: I'm pulling up your shirt and kissing your chest.

Wellhung: Now I'm unbuttoning your blouse. My hands are trembling.

Sweetheart: I'm moaning softly.

Wellhung: I'm taking hold of your blouse and sliding it off slowly.

Sweetheart: I'm throwing my head back in pleasure. The cool silk slides off
my warm skin. I'm rubbing your bulge faster, pulling and rubbing.

Wellhung: My hand suddenly jerks spastically and accidentally rips a hole
your blouse. I'm sorry.

Wellhung: I'll pay for it.

Sweetheart: Don't worry about it. I'm wearing a lacy black bra. My soft
breasts are rising and falling, as I breath harder and harder.

Wellhung: I'm fumbling with the clasp on your bra. I think it's stuck. Do
you have any scissors?

Sweetheart: I take your hand and kiss it softly. I'm reaching back undoing
the clasp. The bra slides off my body. The air caresses my breasts. My
nipples are erect for you.

Wellhung: How did you do that? I'm picking up the bra and inspecting the

Sweetheart: I'm arching my back. Oh baby. I just want to feel your tongue
all over me.

Wellhung: I'm dropping the bra. Now I'm licking your, you know, breasts.
They're neat!

Sweetheart: I'm running my fingers through your hair. Now I'm nibbling your

Wellhung: I suddenly sneeze. Your breasts are covered with spit and phlegm.

Sweetheart: What?

Wellhung: I'm so sorry. Really.

Sweetheart: I'm wiping your phlegm off my breasts with the remains of my

Wellhung: I'm taking the sopping wet blouse from you. I drop it with a

Sweetheart: OK. I'm pulling your sweat pants down and rubbing your hard

Wellhung: I'm screaming like a woman. Your hands are cold! Yeeee!

Sweetheart: I'm pulling up my miniskirt. Take off my panties.

Wellhung: I'm pulling off your panties. My tongue is going all over, in and
out nibbling on you... umm... wait a minute.

Sweetheart: What's the matter?

Wellhung: I've got a pubic hair caught in my throat. I'm choking.

Sweetheart: Are you OK?

Wellhung: I'm having a coughing fit. I'm turning all red.

Sweetheart: Can I help?

Wellhung: I'm running to the kitchen, choking wildly. I'm fumbling through
the cabinets, looking for a cup. Where do you keep your cups?

Sweetheart: In the cabinet to the right of the sink.

Wellhung: I'm drinking a cup of water. There, that's better.

Sweetheart: Come back to me, lover.

Wellhung: I'm washing the cup now.

Sweetheart: I'm on the bed aching for you.

Wellhung: I'm drying the cup. Now I'm putting it back in the cabinet. And
now I'm walking back to the bedroom. Wait, it's dark, I'm lost. Where's the

Sweetheart: Last door on the left at the end of the hall.

Wellhung: I found it.

Sweetheart: I'm tuggin' off your pants. I'm moaning. I want you so badly.

Wellhung: Me too.

Sweetheart: Your pants are off. I kiss you passionately - our naked bodies
pressing each other.

Wellhung: Your face is pushing my glasses into my face. It hurts.

Sweetheart: Why don't you take off your glasses?

Wellhung: OK, but I can't see very well without them. I place the glasses
the night table.

Sweetheart: I'm bending over the bed. Give it to me, baby!

Wellhung: I have to pee. I'm fumbling my way blindly across the room and
toward the bathroom.

Sweetheart: Hurry back, lover.

Wellhung: I find the bathroom and it's dark. I'm feeling around for the
toilet. I lift the lid.

Sweetheart: I'm waiting eagerly for your return.

Wellhung: I'm done going. I'm feeling around for the flush handle, but I
can't find it. Uh-oh!

Sweetheart: What's the matter now?

Wellhung: I've realized that I've peed into your laundry hamper. Sorry
again. I'm walking back to the bedroom now, blindly feeling my way.

Sweetheart: Mmm, yes. Come on.

Wellhung: OK, now I'm going to put my... you know... thing... in your...
know... woman's thing.

Sweetheart: Yes! Do it, baby! Do it!

Wellhung: I'm touching your smooth butt. It feels so nice. I kiss your
Umm, I'm having a little trouble here.

Sweetheart: I'm moving my ass back and forth, moaning. I can't stand it
another second! Slide in! Screw me now!

Wellhung: I'm flaccid.

Sweetheart: What?

Wellhung: I'm limp. I can't sustain an erection.

Sweetheart: I'm standing up and turning around; an incredulous look on my

Wellhung: I'm shrugging with a sad look on my face, my weiner all floppy.
I'm going to get my glasses and see what's wrong.

Sweetheart: No, never mind. I'm getting dressed. I'm putting on my
underwear. Now I'm putting on my wet nasty blouse.

Wellhung: No wait! Now I'm squinting, trying to find the night table. I'm
feeling along the dresser, knocking over cans of hair spray, picture frames
and your candles.

Sweetheart: I'm buttoning my blouse. Now I'm putting on my shoes.

Wellhung: I've found my glasses. I'm putting them on. My God! One of our
candles fell on the curtain. The curtain is on fire! I'm pointing at it, a
shocked look on my face.

Sweetheart: Go to hell. I'm logging off, you loser!

Wellhung: Now the carpet is on fire! Oh noooo!

Sweetheart: (logged off)
(, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 13:06, 13 replies)
I went to the Fat Duck restaurant
with a few friends. They had a cancellation. It was all very tasty but a bit confusing, with so many different plates and bowls and spoons etc.
One of the dishes was a little scallop with some sauce, on a bed of rice on a tiny porcelain plate. One of the girls in the group stared at her serving for a few moments, looking like she was trying to work something out; then popped the whole lot in her mouth and swallowed it, little plate and all.
(, Thu 15 Jul 2010, 13:59, 5 replies)
I was twelve, playing in the wood across the road with some mates.
There was a dell with what can only be described as a soggy bottom. One of my friends, Ben, was poking the soggy bottom with a stick. It was the kind of summer holiday afternoon when poking some mud with a stick was the most entertaining thing we could think of.

Then I noticed the pile of wood a few yards behind us, left over from some tree felling. An idea popped into my brain. I’d pick up the biggest piece I could, throw it into the mud and splash Ben in rotting bog slime. Comedy gold.

The other two mates watched with out comment as I struggled to get the section of tree trunk hefted over my head, ran the five steps to reach Ben and launched the surprisingly heavy piece of wood. In my mind the wood passed just over Ben’s head and dropped into the mud. In reality I stoved Ben’s head in.

With a grunt, that was more air escaping from his lungs than a conscious cry he collapsed to the floor. Blood was pouring from the ugly gash in his skull. The other two guys stood routed to the spot mouths open. I knew it was a prank gone wrong, to them it looked nothing less than cold blooded murder.

The moment was broken by “What the fuck did you do that for” from Ben who’d returned from the dead. He pulled a blood soaked hand from the back of his head and stared incredulously? “Have I got blood on my jumper!”


Yes he did, lots of blood. By the time we’d walked him the 100 yards to his house the stain reached the small of his back.

Luckily his head was more ‘scalped’ than stoved in, after stitches and an overnight stay at the hospital he was back out with us.
(, Tue 20 Jul 2010, 10:08, 3 replies)
my iphone
i loved my new iphone. he was shiny and tactile and sleek and sexy. and even i could use him. but i did not want him to get scratched, so i ordered a cover from the internet. when it turned up, not only was it alarmingly, retina-searingly pink, but it didn't cover the screen and it had holes in all the wrong places. i was getting increasingly fed up as every time i wanted to charge the (now gay) iphone or take a photograph i had to wrestle it out of the case.

after about 3 weeks my trainee saw me doing this and looked at me with the kind of slightly disgusted pity that you normally only see on the faces of tourists looking at the homeless. he took it off me. he took the cover off it. he turned it around. he put it back on the right way. so that the random holes actually allowed for things like the camera and the charging cable.

we never spoke of it again.
(, Mon 19 Jul 2010, 16:50, 8 replies)
There's a lot of stories about
getting names wrong going round, and I've just been reminded of a guy from Hong Kong we had over on a 3 month visit to our office a few years back.

He was introduced to all and sundry as Mr Lee. We invited him out for a pub lunch, and I got chatting to him. He gave me his Hong Kong business card so I could contact him about some work he was interested in once he'd gone back, and I was a bit confused:

Stanley Young

'Why's everyone been calling you Mr Lee then?'
'I introduced myself to your CEO as Stanley the first time I met him, and I think he thinks I'm Stan Lee'
'Why don't you correct him?'
'I did, but he seems to have forgotten. It's no big deal.'

It turned out hotel reservations, UK email addresses, and absolutely anything which we'd organised and which required a name, was as Mr. Stan Lee. We'd effectively rechristened him, and sensibly, he'd just gone along with it to avoid problems.
(, Sun 18 Jul 2010, 15:56, 2 replies)
Amorous Badger in QOTW FAIL SHOCKER
After reading this post by Strump about how a little girl is better at hooking up a ps3 than him, I was amused to see a (now-deleted) reply by our very own Amorous Badger in which he said something to the effect of

"So your story is 'I can connect up a PS3 wirelessley'"

I chuckled and left the below reply (visible only in my profile due to ABs shameful deletion)

I logged back on his afternoon and saw AB posted an answer of his own and thought "Yippee he has been active on b3ta so he has proably read my disarming non-confrontational response. I wonder what dubious defence he will throw up along with a deconstruction of my character based on slighty creepy internet-stalkage".

But alas, comment deleted and replaced meaning the badger admits wrongness AND is so ashamed of it he cannot let anybody see it!

Thought you lot might have liked to read about this little adventure!
(, Sat 17 Jul 2010, 15:30, 18 replies)
In search of the mighty mighty orgasm
If you were to gauge an opinion on my sexual prowess to all the lucky ladies I have been with, the one word that will come up often is energetic. There is a reason for this. So sit back, pour a drink, light your pipe and prepare to be amazed by my blind stupidity with a touch forced ignorance.

In a previous QOTW (http://www.b3ta.com/questions/childishthings/post524490) I recanted my school days and how much they stunted my social interaction skills. If you can’t be bothered to read that post I’ll explain quickly: I went to an all boy’s catholic boarding school in the middle of the English countryside (yes, bumming was a plenty amongst the more light footed members of the clergy and unsuspecting choir boys). I cannot begin to explain how laughable the sex education was at this school. An example of this is when I raised the point of contraception use with your hepatitis-infected wife, basically we were told to dive in like a retard with wet fingers to a live plug socket. So, we learned the square root of fuck all when it came to women and sex. On the upside though if you were in the choir you learned a lot about buggery.

Roll on many years, I leave at 16 and stumble off to college were I meet a new breed of human being, girls. Confused is a term that is used to lightly in our society these days; I was fucking bamboozled by their forthcoming nature and their need to be so close. The wanking around this time was of an Olympic standard and I was just struggling to deal with girls sitting next to me in class without having to run off to the bogs to knock one out like a rabid masturbator. This level of hardcore self abuse and shyness continues for at least 2 years (yes, I was still a virgin) until I meet Helen. My oh my was out to impress, she was very pretty, long thick hair and massive tits. The dates were the usual collection of teenage fuck ups and ill-advised tit fumblings in the dark, but she stuck around. I should point out at this point that during my time at college I had gotten involved with a bunch of class A nutters who enjoyed marathon cycling, 24 hours plus in one sitting. As you could imagine I was quite skinny and full of energy.

So after some false stars in the bedroom I eventually popped my cherry with her. This sexual conquest continued for some time until these odd emotional feelings started crossing my mind, for some reason I wanted to spend every fucking waking hour with her. The next logical step for me was to get her pregnant. Fucking Genius I’m sure you’ll agree, get her up the duff and she’ll be mine forever. This is the attitude of people who kidnap women and hide them in a man made basement for 20 years.

Due to my ignorance and lack of education I was blissfully unaware that she was on the pill. I had never heard of the pill before and I was slightly surprised that she allowed me to “swim without a snorkel”, but I loved it. I was also aware that I had not made her orgasm yet. This is the mental bit, I someone attributed her lack of pregnancy due to the fact she had not orgasmed yet. Hells bollocking bells, I out to ride this horse through the valley of minge, over the mountains of clit and circumnavigate the woods of gash. Thankfully, the Internet has just started taking off and it was the perfect reference library for the undiluted perverts of my generation. So I studied hard, looked up all the techniques and in a short time I was ready to attempt my “attack run”. I will not pass on the details but needless to say, I went at it like a mad man and thanks to fingering techniques that can only be attributed to continually trying Zangief’s spinning pile driver move on street fighter, I was able to make her come just before I did. My work was done. In the post sex conversation we talked endlessly about how much we loved each other while listening to champagne supernova and I said these immortal words:

“I suppose there is a chance you may be pregnant now”
“how did you work that one out?”
Me, stuttering like a Parkinsonis victim:
“Well, you come ”

This laughter continued until I was completely embarrassed beyond the pale. She then gave me the patronising sex education I should have gotten at school, she admired my enthusiasm and energy. This relationship did come to an end but we are still good friends and she often tells people about my lack of education which usually brings laughter and often a few ahhhhhs. Fuck it though, I’m now a sex god of hell fire and I bring you….. length
(, Fri 16 Jul 2010, 15:17, 1 reply)
that's really funny *clicks*
(, Wed 21 Jul 2010, 17:56, 3 replies)

This question is now closed.

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