b3ta.com user Big Grant
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London based child of the Midlands. Average height, average build, hung like a stegosaurus.

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» Gyms

Anal with Frank
Before middle age set in I used to play rugby and was pretty fit. But I stopped going to the gym after a bloody awful incident that I’ll probably be talking about in therapy for years. I’d just done a weight session, had a quick shower, and was laying face down on a gurney stark bollock naked with a towel covering my modesty, waiting to have a warm down massage (just the normal routine, and it was a proper massage place, not one of those dodgy backstreet places where you get a blowjob from a fifteen year old Lithuanian). The man who did the massaging was Frank. He oiled me up and started on my shoulders, smoothing out the tension, making me feel relaxed.

Frank moved onto my lower back, my body made a series of lovely clunking noises. Then Frank started on the back of my thighs. As this whole experience was more than slightly homoerotic I made a point of talking about manly stuff, like cars and football, and shagging women.

Then, as Frank was busy kneading the top of my thighs, his hands all oily and slippery, I sneezed really violently, my arse shot backwards, and Frank’s thumb lodged firmly up my brown bullet wound like a cork going back into a bottle. I let out a scream, so did Frank. Frank attempted to remove his thumb from my arsehole but because I was suddenly (and not very fucking suprisingly) tense, I sort of clamped tight round his probing digit. Frank’s thumb was stuck! I howled in agony. Eventually Frank came free and, panting, I rolled onto my front, the towel now tossed aside. And I realised Frank was gazing in fear at my willy. I looked down. I was harder than set concrete. And pre cum was gurgling out of me like someone had turned on a tap. Frank must’ve tickled or applied pressure to my prostate. And all he said was: “You’ll be wanting some tissues for that.”

And I’ve never been to a gym since.
(Tue 14th Jul 2009, 10:08, More)

» Mobile phone disasters

asked why I'm so fucked off about so-called 'humorous' texting...

Quite a while back one of my best mates, a lad named Jim, was struggling with his sexuality. He was gay. No problem with that. But where we grew up it was decidedly not 'the done thing' to be homosexual. We all knew Jim was gay and really didn't care. When he eventually came out to us it was quite the anticlimax - just a brief interlude before we got in the next round of drinks. But then, after a year or so of Jim being a proud gay man, some complete and utter tit thought it would be a great joke to nick his mobile and text Jim's parents. Up to this point they didn't know he was a shirt lifter of George Michaelesque proportions.

Oh, what hilarity...

Jim's dad went apeshit. Absolutely up the fucking wall. Jim ended up being thrown out of his house. He then spent the next few weeks sleeping over at various mates houses. But Jim was spiralling into a deep dark depression. Then, one day, Jim disappeared. Not sure where he went, some people said he moved down to London, others that he'd got work as a travel rep in Spain. But no one really knew - Jim just cut himself off from everyone who cared about him.

Then, a few years back, I happened to bump into an old mate I hadn't seen for years who told me Jim had passed away pretty much penniless in a bedsit somewhere, London I think. It made me fucking angry. Really fucking angry.

And all this can be traced back to the utter fucking prick shithead who sent the texts to his dad's phone. Fucking evil shit. I swear if I ever find out who that was, I will personally rip their fucking head off and piss down the hole.

So, kids - don't send shitty texts for a ten second immature giggle - it really does fuck up lives. Sorry for lack of funnies, but this subject is a bit close to the bone. Cheers.
(Fri 31st Jul 2009, 13:17, More)

» Turning into your parents

My childhood
When I was a child I spent my summers over on the continent; my dad was an engineer and would usually find work somewhere hot and sunny. I remember when I was a child I'd be woken early by the beating hot sun streaming in through the gaps in the blinds like a laser beam. And the incredible heat. I'd get up, have a shower, and then run outside to meet up with my new friends. Every summer I started to learn a different language. Now that I'm in my thirties I can swear fluently in five languages, which comes in really handy when I'm trawling through the rush hour in central London.

One summer I was out in Spain and my mate, Juan, dared me to play this game with him. I wasn't too hot on the Spanish at this time, but thought I got the gist of it. I agreed to play this dangerous game with my little friend, Juan. So we went down to the canal, slipped off our shoes and slid into the warm, brakish water. And then we started hunting. The trick to it was to step very gently forward, your arms dangling out in front of you in the water, and then when you felt something move you flipped quickly to see if you could dislodge your quarry onto the canal bank. But we wern't hunting fish, that would've been too easy. We were hunting vipers which would hide under the water where it was cooler until the sun had relented a little.

Juan and I did the snake hunting all day. I very nearly got bitten a few times. Thinking back I'm amazed that I didn't. I mean, I didn't have a clue about snakes.

And what's this got to do with my dad? Well, he tells completely random stories too that don't seem to have any relevance at all to what he's been asked.
(Wed 6th May 2009, 15:48, More)

» Impulse buys

has gone into the early lead this week promising to show us her filly grundies.

However, I promise NOT to post photos of my good self wearing some of the wife's sexy cum-splutterers if AND ONLY IF this post comes higher than hers on the Best Of page.

For the record I am very hairy and my package is the type of thing that'll give you nightmares (in as much as it looks like a deformed dwarf wearing a pot holing helmet).
(Fri 22nd May 2009, 10:39, More)

» Failed Projects

Christmas fail
Was round a mates house last night. Wandered into his kitchen and noticed he had an unopend tin of Quality Street balanced on the electric hob on a low heat.

"What's all this about then?" I asked.

My mate followed me, "Got our office Christmas party tomorrow night."

"So...." I said, reaching out a hand to feel the heat radiating off the rumbling tin of chocolate and caramel sludge, awash with manky sweet wrappers.

"The cheapskates are holding the party at work this year. We were all ordered to bring something along to eat. I don't really like the people I work with and I fucking hate being told what to do."

(Wed 9th Dec 2009, 13:13, More)
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