» Anonymous

Eleanor
A few years ago when I worked in London, I got into the habit of going to the pub of a Friday evening with a group of mates from work. The group consisted of four other blokes and Eleanor (for that was definitely not her name). Now Eleanor was a bit of a strange bird, no supermodel but kind of alluring in her own way, and incredibly filthy. During the course of these drinking sessions we had been treated to many tales and fantasies about her sexual exploits and the things that floated her boat - some of which were sexy, and some of which were just plain disturbing.

She was also prone to some highly risky behavior, such as walking home alone across Clapham Common in the dark every Friday night - despite the chivalrous protests of the blokes she regularly drank with. We knew she carried pepper spray anyway, and she always seemed to make it home safely, so we had long since got out of the habit of making a fuss about it.

So one night we're sitting in the pub as usual, when out of the blue she says in an exasperated tone "you know, I've been walking home alone in the dark every week for months - you'd think someone would have had a crack at me by now." Knowing Eleanor, none of us are particularly shocked to hear this, and we take it in stride as she elaborates on her fantasy of a shadowy figure grabbing her in dark, dragging her into the bushes and having his way with her.

But the next part we didn't see coming: "How about if one of you does the honours?" Now some uncomfortable glances are exchanged as Eleanor confirms that she wants one of her 5 male drinking buddies to basically force himself upon her on the way home that night. "I'm going to the ladies' now," she says, "so you'll have a chance to decide who it is. And we won't mention it again for the rest of the night."

While she's gone, we go through the phases of "is she joking?" and "well I'm not doing it", and quickly reach the conclusion that none of us is willing to do the deed, and in any case, we're pretty sure this is just another of her fantasies and she would never seriously follow through on it. True to her word, Eleanor changes the subject as soon as she returns, and doesn't speak of it again for the rest of the evening. At the end of the night we all charge off in different directions as usual, Eleanor taking her usual hazardous stroll across the darkened Common.

The following Friday, Eleanor arrives late to the pub having been held up at work. When she sits down she looks at each of us in turn, as if searching for something in our expressions. Apparently finding no answers there she declares "Whoever it was last week - same time again tonight?". We exchange glances, not knowing what she's talking about, and respond as such. She looks puzzled: "On the Common on the way home last Friday. You know what I'm talking about." Doubt is beginning to cloud her expression now, as we figure out how to tell her that if she did "meet" someone on the way home last week, it wasn't one of us. It takes a lot of persuasion to convince her we're not winding her up, but eventually she believes us, and looks a little shell shocked to say the least.

She tells the story: Last Friday she sets off across the Common for home, still mulling over the fantasy she discussed with the boys in the pub. She doesn't really expect any of us to actually do as she had asked, but the conversation in the pub has raised the possibility just enough past the realm of pure fantasy that she feels a little more "excited" than usual. So much so that, when she hears brisk footsteps approach her from behind and feels a strong arm around her neck, she just goes along with it and allows herself to be dragged backwards into the shadows. In her ever-eloquent words, "I was wet before he tore off my knickers." She goes into some (too much) detail about what ensued which I won't elaborate, suffice to say that her unknown partner was "forceful but not too rough" and that she was pretty sure the guy had slipped on a condom before getting down to business - which kept her convinced that "she knew her attacker". All in all, she had a pretty pleasant time.

Now, though, the normally unshakable Eleanor is looking a little spooked, but - Eleanor being Eleanor - she quickly starts to shake it off and reflect on the fact that one of her greatest fantasies actually happened without damage or consequences. (This girl, as I implied earlier, has some serious issues.) So much so that by the end of the night, she's actually joking that she can't wait to walk home to see if she'll "get lucky" again. We boys, of course, are strongly protesting that there's no way we're letting her walk home alone after last week, and that she was lucky not to get seriously hurt. But come the end of the night, her strong will trumps our alcohol-addled heads, and she toddles off home alone once more.

That night, I follow her across the common and repeat my performance from the previous week. She fucking loved it.
(Sat 16th Jan 2010, 20:32, More)

» Irrational Hatred

Cock Hair
People who use gel to shape their hair into a big "fin" in the middle of their head. You look like a cockerel, but you're really just a cock.
(Wed 6th Apr 2011, 21:42, More)