BLOOD PISS VOMIT & GORE ! ! !

A few years back I went on a date with an undergraduate who worked in my office over the summer named Zoe. Nice girl. There was also an element of danger attached to Zoe because she was the company owners daughter. My line manager, seeing the abject flirtatious behaviour between Zoe and I, even pulled me to one side and said: "Don't.... Just don't!!!" Which just made me want to even more. (I'm a bit of a twat like that).

Zoe asked if I fancied going to the pub after work one balmy summers day... and for the next few hours I sat at my desk with twitchy cock syndrome, watching the clock.

We ended up in a rather famous metal pub near Camden Town tube station. A pub which was also cunningly close to my love shack, where I was planning to take this girl later after I'd plied her with alcohol - the one and only, tried and trusted love lubrication.

Things were going well.

I felt a bit of a dick sitting there in my starched white office shirt, but I had taken my tie off so was mixing it up with the metallers quite well, I thought. The rounds were stacking up, the time was flying, and I was doing what I always do when I try and chat up a girl:

Attempt to be witty and funny and slip seemlessly into the conversation somewhere the fact that I'm hung like a wooly mammoth.

"Zoe, did you know I'm hung like a wooly mammoth?" I slurred. I must've been about five or six pints into the session by then.

Zoe laughed - thank fuck - and went to get another round in. This girl could drink!

Now, I don't know about you, but I've got this weird thing when I'm in a pub with a girl and I'm trying to impress her... I just don't go to the toilet. Somehow I don't think its gonna help the sexy cause if I'm constantly getting up to sway to the gents for a slash. I'd rather sit there with my bladder swelling to the size of a small Eastern European country before I have to go and release the pressure.

The pub was pretty quiet for a Friday night, it was a hot day and people must've been doing the beer garden thing instead. So, while Zoe waited for service at the bar I decided to slink off and empty my bladder, which must've constituted half my bodyweight by this time.

When I stand I realise I'm really pretty pissed by now, I stagger a bit and find the bogs. Push open the door and-

-GET HIT IN THE FUCKING FACE BY A SPEEDING FUCKING FREIGHT TRAIN !!!

Well, that's what it felt like.

I had to piece together what happened after the event. Some bright fucking spark had rammed a load of toilet paper into the floor - level urinals that lined one wall, blocking the drain and causing the pub toilets to flood with about an inch of piss water. I must've taken a couple of steps into the toilet in my ever-so-sensible work shoes which had absolutely no fucking grip at all, skidded on the translucent pool, and somehow twatted my face against the sink on the way down, knocking myself out stone cold.

....

I was woken by a strange sensation...

...in my mouth.

A trickling, cold, chemical taste was flicking against my tongue and lapping at the back of my throat. My head hurt like fuck and I had a strange awareness of being... wet... and cold.

Suddenly, as consciousness flooded back, I sat bolt upright and proptly projectile vomitted, Exorcist-style, all over my shirt, trousers, and right down to my shiny black shoes.

Apparently drinking strangers piss has this effect on a person.

Reaching out a hand, I used the sink to help clamber upright and I took a look at myself in the mirror.

Sweet-mother-of-holy-fucking-fuck!

I was a fucking mess...

Blood was pouring out of a gash in my head and the front of my lovely clean white shirt had turned red with blood. I had lumps of brown beer vomit crusted to my nose, mouth, down my chin, and also - oddly - in my hair.

Oh, and then I noticed that I had also pissed myself...

I washed my face off a bit, grabbed some paper towels and started scrubbing at my shirt and pissy trousers. I suddenly remembered the potential shag, Zoe, who must've been wondering where the hell her date had fucked off to.

Fuck!!!

I scrubbed harder. I even emptied the soap dispenser, squirting loads of the cheap smelling pub soap into the palm of my hand and smearing it over the front of my shirt and trousers, working it into a whitish, brownish, yellowy pink paste of detergent, vomit, piss, and blood.

Regarding myself in the mirror, I realised I looked like some kind of fucking satanic snowman.

It was not a good look.

I started to panic now. I thought: If I can just get Zoe back to mine, I can rush up to the bathroom, have a quick shower, and get on with some well earned fucking.

I think I must've been concussed.

A young metaller wandered into the toilet. Took one look at me, his eyes wide with horror, and fucked off. I must've looked an awful lot like Eddie on his Iron Maiden t-shirt.

Eventually, after a bit more scrubbing, I admitted defeat... and ambled back out to the pub. By this time I was quietly sobbing to myself, a trail of snot and tears mixing with the blood and vomit that I'd managed to smear round my face.

Zoe saw me and her eyes widened...

Well... She did go back to mine that night. Well, she walked me back to mine to make sure I was ok.

But the closest I got to a wet gash was cleaning up the fucking cut on my forehead...
( SpankyHanky, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 10:04, 2 replies)

Blimey!
Didn't know a Woolly Mammoth was hung that well.

Great story, though I bet this didn't help your fear of going to the toilet during dates.
(Adamish Time of death, Sat 7 Feb 2009, 3:25, closed)

Ha ha!
Brilliant! Made me laugh like a twat at my desk.

Click for you sir!
(Burt Burt, Thu 12 Feb 2009, 15:14, closed)