» Cougars and Sugar Daddies

Getting a Marshmallow into a Piggybank.
She was 46. I was 21. She had Bowie-esque angled features and a body not ruined by giving birth to her son, my friend, who we shall call Abel.

Outside a kebab shop at Canon Circus, Nottingham, she recognized me from Rock City, as I had spent the night getting hideously drunk with her son. We chatted, and, as is customary in town at 2.30 am early sunday, swiftly got down to tongue-exchange, much to the joy of horn-blowing passing taxis. 'Come with me' she purred,and gestured down Ilkeston Road, where she resided, 'spend the night'. I considered this proposition, weighed it against the fresh, satisfying prospect of eating the kebab I had just purschased...the kebab was binned. I was careful to inform her of this sacrifice. 'Thats romantic', she said demurely, and seemingly without irony.

A night of passion ensued, for about thirty minutes, whereabouts the booze took hold and I passed out, still in the process of a second run, a process akin to stuffing a marshmallow in a piggy-bank. In the morning, I hastily dressed and left, happy that her teeth were still in her mouth, not swimming in a bed-side jar.

For fear of Abel's revenge, I kept away from him and avoided Rock City for several weeks, until in a fit of Thunderbird Red-inspired courage, I ventured in. Instantly, I saw Abel, he saw me, and a game of cat and mouse ensued, ducking through the crowds, down corridors and stairwells to avoid the chunky thug. Then, just as I thought I was safe, he cornered me by the Gents, pushed me against the wall, pulled his head back ready to butt...then kissed me full on the lips and said, in an infantile voice...'Daddy'.
(Tue 9th Dec 2008, 0:25, More)

» The thing I've been most ashamed of doing with a penis

Welsh Horses and Hungry Dogs. NSFW.
Pony trekking in North Wales, aged about 12, with my four year old brother. We're in the courtyard of some stables, and Im idly admiring the semi the chestnut horse has raised, apropos of nothing. As Im watching, a dog toddles over, and employing a technique that suggests this is a practised manouevre, starts licking the cock, which in turn, swells to a tumescent that would render Ron Jeremy inadequate. At that point, my brother walks over, and fearing his corruption, reach over and whack the dog on the muzzle to stop his/her perverted ways. In doing so, I caught the helmet of the horse cock, and got for my troubles a little squirt of equine pre-cum, which I had no chance to wash off before donning riding gloves, and spending the rest of the morning trotting round with a drying horror pressed between suede and flesh, like a spunky Lady Macbeth.

My brother, now 29, remains unscarred. I however, flinch at the Grand National.
(Thu 12th Mar 2009, 23:57, More)

» My Worst Vomit

A royal visit
Early nineties, en route to the pub. My friends and I notice swarms of biddies and police crowding a street, and, after questioning several of the oldies we realise Princess Diana is opening up some medical centre in an hours time. A friend has a great idea to streak in front of her as she arrives, so we go to the pub for dutch courage. Many shorts later and we're pressed against the barriers as a limo appears, and out steps Diana. The promised streaker suddenly gets stage fright and asks if i'll do it, to which I reply forcibly in the negative. In response, he replies forcibly with an upper cut to my kidneys. I gag in response, and then regurgitate a guiness and carrot medley all over several old ladies and the path of the Princess, who gets escorted round the stinking puddle. I swear she gave me a really evil look. And a sweet old lady called me a wanker with such venom she nearly dislodged her dentures.
(Fri 20th Aug 2004, 11:05, More)

» My Worst Vomit

My worst Vimto...
It was a warm one i had on a train in 1995, left a purple stain on my shirt when it overfizzed.

Oh hang on, I read that wrong...
(Fri 20th Aug 2004, 11:11, More)

» Cringe!

One More...
My parents have been friends with a Jehovas Witness couple for many years, and as such they would pop round every sunday with Watchtower and Awake and explain Christs glory and how it could be achieved by refusing blood transfusions and forsaking wanking, etc. My mum would sopend this time nodding in a polite but non-committal manner.

As a teenager, and also an atheist who was a huge fan of wanking, these visits bugged me, so I sought solace in nipping out for a ritual known as the Sunday Joint, a few strong spliffs and a stroll round the park before home and monging in front of the Antiques Roadshow.

I returned after one particularly muddy trek with my boots caked in mud, so carefully, in that slow, confused manner a huge intake of smoke lends one, removed my well-laced chunky boots on the mat outside the door.

Fiddling witrh the laces, I didnt hear the door open before becoming startled by someone standing over me, leading to a blurt of 'JESUS FUCKING CHRIST'. Inevitably, the startler was the aforementioned Jobos.

Several things happened at the same time then. I lost all blood from my face and bolted upstairs to my room, as the Jobos decided i WAS the antichrist as previously expected, and my poor mother, after years trying to show we were moderately pious decent people, collapsed with shocked hysterical laughter into a heap behind them.

They still come round, but only after Id left home.
(Fri 28th Nov 2008, 13:47, More)