Profile for DarkLite:
DarkLite is a 25 year old teacher in Hong Kong. He is known for a slightly unusual sense of humour and an awkwardly large stature. He also occasionally writes in the third person when filling in profiles.
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Best answers to questions:
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- a member for 20 years, 2 months and 6 days
- has posted 13 messages on the main board
- has posted 12 messages on the talk board
- has posted 18 messages on the links board
- (including 2 links)
- has posted 85 stories and 65 replies on question of the week
- They liked 78 pictures, 14 links, 0 talk posts, and 1571 qotw answers.
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DarkLite is a 25 year old teacher in Hong Kong. He is known for a slightly unusual sense of humour and an awkwardly large stature. He also occasionally writes in the third person when filling in profiles.
Recent front page messages:
none
Best answers to questions:
» Job Interviews
Hemipenis!
Twas applying for a desk job once, and the interviewer was a good sort, nice sense of humour.
Interviewer: What animal would you like to be?
Me: A snake.
Interviewer: Why's that?
Me: They have two cocks!
Interviewer: (Laughs) But they haven't any hands, how would you wank?
(Thu 20th Jan 2005, 16:51, More)
Hemipenis!
Twas applying for a desk job once, and the interviewer was a good sort, nice sense of humour.
Interviewer: What animal would you like to be?
Me: A snake.
Interviewer: Why's that?
Me: They have two cocks!
Interviewer: (Laughs) But they haven't any hands, how would you wank?
(Thu 20th Jan 2005, 16:51, More)
» Sexual fetishes
After raiding a flatmate's DVD stash
We figured he had a fetish for women fucking each other in the arse.
Turns out "Anal Lesbians 6" was actually three hours of a couple of women going through their fridge and sorting the contents in alphabetical order.
(Thu 22nd Oct 2009, 19:46, More)
After raiding a flatmate's DVD stash
We figured he had a fetish for women fucking each other in the arse.
Turns out "Anal Lesbians 6" was actually three hours of a couple of women going through their fridge and sorting the contents in alphabetical order.
(Thu 22nd Oct 2009, 19:46, More)
» DIY disasters
Never put your mobile down when doing DIY jobs
Like the time I was putting a TV cabinet together for my mother and couldn't find my phone.
The cabinet was fine, built magnificently and quickly, just in time for me to have a shower before the dinner I had reserved at a fancy restaurant for me and a lady friend - upon the completion of which I would be able to bring her back to my house for a nightcap and quite possibly some heavy-duty shagging.
Yes, it was all going to plan, for once, I thought, as I cracked open a beer in a quick celebratory finishing ceremony.
Mistake number 1: Building mobile phone into cabinet.
Mistake number 2: Forgetting to take my Sertraline.
Mistake number 3: Drinking alcohol whilst being in treatment for panic disorder, a condition which, in my case, is more prevalent when alcohol is present and I haven't taken my Sertraline. I was about to have a panic attack. A big one.
Upon exiting the shower, I hear the distinctive sound of my mobile - the electric guitar cover of Canon in D - at a somewhat muted volume.
"Ah!" thought I as I toweled off. "I must have left it in my work jeans!"
So I pull my jeans out of the linen basket, only to find that they are indeed bereft of mobile phones.
It was then that I suddenly remembered that I had put my mobile down whilst building the TV cabinet.
"Fucksocking buggernuggeting cuntbuckets" said I as I realized the extent of my folly.
The phone stopped ringing as I was pulling my tools back out of the toolbox.
Then started ringing again nearly straight afterwards. My lady at the time NEVER called more than once, she would just leave a scathing message.
It was at this point that the alcohol started to get into my system. Combined with the sudden and unexpected double-call, the two conspired to give me what can only be described as a massive hit of nausea and paranoia.
Good fucking god! Had something happened? Was she injured? It had to be fucking urgent if she was calling more than once! Jesus! Was she on fire? Had her car crashed? Had an ill-advised aircraft sloughed into her house?
My confused, addled mind accepted these terrifying, infeasible ideas as fact. My lady friend had caught fire whilst crashing a car into a plane! And now she was calling me to perhaps pass on her last words!
My brain, at that moment, was in more self-torment than that of the bastard offspring of a Pirate and a Viking who had gotten pissed good and tight and had accidentally done the horizontal mambo in a brothel in Thailand.
But one thing had burnt itself into my synapses through the hazy fog of chemical imbalance and hyperventilation. I had to get to my mobile. NOW.
I picked up a hammer, foregoing the screwdriver, and swung my mighty, misguided arm downwards.
Hardened Steel met fashionably finished matte black coated laminate chipboard at a velocity that far exceeded the recommended limits of safe hammer-cabinet interface.
The chipboard exploded most satisfactorily, a harsh, broken keening wail of terrified triumph tearing itself from my lips as I pulled back for another swing.
Again, steel met chipboard. Again, steel proved the victor. Great fissures and cracks appeared in the cabinet's sides as I hammered it into splintering submission, driven by a combination of adrenaline, paranoia and an increasing sense of disquiet. A lot of fucking disquiet.
At some point I chundered, spraying vomit onto everything whilst I continued to attack with my mighty hammer.
Finally, I stood victorious. The cabinet lay before me in at least twenty three pieces. In it's death throes it had painted almost every surface in the room in the peculiar sawdust-like detritus that chipboard emits when smashed with a hammer.
Thrusting my free hand into the sad pile of shattered IKEA and vomit, I pulled free my mobile, flipping it open and checking the baleful "You have 4 missed calls" message, accompanied by a "You have 1 new message".
They were all from my mother.
The terror ground to a halt. My lady friend was not, in fact, in trouble. I fought my pulse down, breathing slowly to try and calm down.
If any of you have ever had a panic attack, you'll know how draining they can be. Coming out of one is like digging your way out of a concrete grave with a butterknife.
Trembling and sweating, I checked my messagebox.
"REMEMBER TO TAKE PILLS U ALWAYS FORGET"
So it was that I turned up for dinner slightly late, having quickly cleaned up any evidence of there ever having been a cabinet in the living room and quickly showering again to get rid of the chunder-stench.
And I still managed to pull that night, though I got into so much shit the next day when my mother found her carpet a bit soggy.
Apologies for length, the panic attack only lasted about 4 minutes, but it felt a hell of a lot longer.
(Mon 7th Apr 2008, 4:24, More)
Never put your mobile down when doing DIY jobs
Like the time I was putting a TV cabinet together for my mother and couldn't find my phone.
The cabinet was fine, built magnificently and quickly, just in time for me to have a shower before the dinner I had reserved at a fancy restaurant for me and a lady friend - upon the completion of which I would be able to bring her back to my house for a nightcap and quite possibly some heavy-duty shagging.
Yes, it was all going to plan, for once, I thought, as I cracked open a beer in a quick celebratory finishing ceremony.
Mistake number 1: Building mobile phone into cabinet.
Mistake number 2: Forgetting to take my Sertraline.
Mistake number 3: Drinking alcohol whilst being in treatment for panic disorder, a condition which, in my case, is more prevalent when alcohol is present and I haven't taken my Sertraline. I was about to have a panic attack. A big one.
Upon exiting the shower, I hear the distinctive sound of my mobile - the electric guitar cover of Canon in D - at a somewhat muted volume.
"Ah!" thought I as I toweled off. "I must have left it in my work jeans!"
So I pull my jeans out of the linen basket, only to find that they are indeed bereft of mobile phones.
It was then that I suddenly remembered that I had put my mobile down whilst building the TV cabinet.
"Fucksocking buggernuggeting cuntbuckets" said I as I realized the extent of my folly.
The phone stopped ringing as I was pulling my tools back out of the toolbox.
Then started ringing again nearly straight afterwards. My lady at the time NEVER called more than once, she would just leave a scathing message.
It was at this point that the alcohol started to get into my system. Combined with the sudden and unexpected double-call, the two conspired to give me what can only be described as a massive hit of nausea and paranoia.
Good fucking god! Had something happened? Was she injured? It had to be fucking urgent if she was calling more than once! Jesus! Was she on fire? Had her car crashed? Had an ill-advised aircraft sloughed into her house?
My confused, addled mind accepted these terrifying, infeasible ideas as fact. My lady friend had caught fire whilst crashing a car into a plane! And now she was calling me to perhaps pass on her last words!
My brain, at that moment, was in more self-torment than that of the bastard offspring of a Pirate and a Viking who had gotten pissed good and tight and had accidentally done the horizontal mambo in a brothel in Thailand.
But one thing had burnt itself into my synapses through the hazy fog of chemical imbalance and hyperventilation. I had to get to my mobile. NOW.
I picked up a hammer, foregoing the screwdriver, and swung my mighty, misguided arm downwards.
Hardened Steel met fashionably finished matte black coated laminate chipboard at a velocity that far exceeded the recommended limits of safe hammer-cabinet interface.
The chipboard exploded most satisfactorily, a harsh, broken keening wail of terrified triumph tearing itself from my lips as I pulled back for another swing.
Again, steel met chipboard. Again, steel proved the victor. Great fissures and cracks appeared in the cabinet's sides as I hammered it into splintering submission, driven by a combination of adrenaline, paranoia and an increasing sense of disquiet. A lot of fucking disquiet.
At some point I chundered, spraying vomit onto everything whilst I continued to attack with my mighty hammer.
Finally, I stood victorious. The cabinet lay before me in at least twenty three pieces. In it's death throes it had painted almost every surface in the room in the peculiar sawdust-like detritus that chipboard emits when smashed with a hammer.
Thrusting my free hand into the sad pile of shattered IKEA and vomit, I pulled free my mobile, flipping it open and checking the baleful "You have 4 missed calls" message, accompanied by a "You have 1 new message".
They were all from my mother.
The terror ground to a halt. My lady friend was not, in fact, in trouble. I fought my pulse down, breathing slowly to try and calm down.
If any of you have ever had a panic attack, you'll know how draining they can be. Coming out of one is like digging your way out of a concrete grave with a butterknife.
Trembling and sweating, I checked my messagebox.
"REMEMBER TO TAKE PILLS U ALWAYS FORGET"
So it was that I turned up for dinner slightly late, having quickly cleaned up any evidence of there ever having been a cabinet in the living room and quickly showering again to get rid of the chunder-stench.
And I still managed to pull that night, though I got into so much shit the next day when my mother found her carpet a bit soggy.
Apologies for length, the panic attack only lasted about 4 minutes, but it felt a hell of a lot longer.
(Mon 7th Apr 2008, 4:24, More)
» Will you go out with me?
Romance is a funny thing.
The air hung still and heavy, seemingly anchored by the thick, omnipresent haze of cigarette smoke – a subtle smell that permeated everyone and everything in the bar as surely as the melancholy meandering notes of the lone saxophone player sat in the corner.
I wouldn’t have noticed her if I hadn’t caught a glimpse of her in the dram of single-malt I had put to my lips, her beauty unmistakable even in the rippling sepia tone of her reflection.
But most importantly, it was she who had been staring at me, her eyes locked on my back. I halted the scotch’s progress and turned to meet her gaze.
Jade eyes shimmered in a soft, slender face framed in luxurious waves of silky ebony hair, finished with a soft smile that glistened on ruby lips. Her cheeks tinted rose, either from being caught staring or from the empty cocktail glass delicately clasped in her right hand.
I raised the whiskey and tilted it, raising an eyebrow with a slightly cheeky smile of my own. She stood, gathering her purse and walked over to the bar, placing the small red bag between us before elegantly slipping her seductive form onto a barstool beside me, the cut of her little black dress offering a hint of thigh. She turned and smiled demurely.
I finally grew brave enough to break the silence.
“Might I offer you a drink?”
She accepted my offer, and as we sipped from our alcohol of choice we talked. We talked about ourselves, we talked about each other, we spoke of poetry, of vice and of virtue. We spoke for hours, delighting in each other’s company, our drinks left virtually untouched before us as the night grew darker.
I found I loved to make her laugh, watching her joy was a delight in itself, and I shared with her the numerous anecdotes and escapades that comprised of my life. She drank them in, blushing with that incredible demure smile as I likened her hair to the majesty of Hawaiian waterfalls, flushing rose as I asked her in turn of her life.
I sat, in rapt attention, my gaze never straying from hers, blushing a little myself as I caught my gaze becoming lost in her beautiful eyes time and time again. A bond had formed between us, two strangers speaking of life and sharing ours with each other over blushes and shy smiles, simple attraction giving way to a simple need for each other’s company, one that grew more and more romantic as the lighting began to dim, the other patrons taking their leave one by one until we were the only souls there, the barman making himself scarce.
The conversation faltered, leaving us both blushing as we realized we had slowly gravitated towards each other, now scant inches separating our eyes. Then she kissed me.
Our lips met as she softly shut her eyes, a brief embrace of the flesh. Somewhere, somehow, our hands found each other, palms pressed together as she pulled back, her cheeks aflame.
“I-I shouldn’t h-have…” She stammered, softly, and I rushed to stop her.
“I love you, Janice.” The words passed my lips with nary a thought, and I knew then, that very moment, that for once in my life it was true.
Her face crumpled, the delicate trickle of tears tracing matching lines down her face, and I caught her as she leant forwards, wrapping my arms around her and drawing her close.
“Shhh…Shhh… It’ll be alright…”
She sobbed into my chest, pressing herself deeper into my embrace as I made soothing noises, softly stroking the back of her head with gentle motions.
“I s-shouldn’t l-love you… Michael.”
I tilted my head, placing a soft kiss on her forehead, as she mumbled into my shirt.
“Shhh…Shhh… It’ll be alright…”
“M-Marcellus s-sends his regards.”
Oh.
I felt the heat of the shot before I heard it. The sudden blossom of warmth on my sternum registered briefly, all too quickly replaced with a sharp flush of searing agony as the bullet tore a messy exit wound in my back.
My eyes flew open just in time to meet hers.
The hammer fell a second time, the muzzle of the revolver pressed into my ribs.
I gasped, not through shock but necessity as my left lung was punctured a second time.
The cylinder clicked smoothly into place again, a fresh round in the chamber, the hammer falling immediately as the trigger travelled it’s full course, and again and again as she fired another two shots, tearing involuntary strangled noises from my throat with each crack of the pistol.
The only thing I could think of was that she stopped on the fifth round, a smooth, practiced economy of motion that belied her appearances. An assassin’s control. It was then I knew how completely I had been fooled.
I caught a glimpse of her tear-streaked face as I slumped, my arms slipping from around her as I fell against the bar. My legs refused to hold me, and gravity won as I slid down the lacquered hardwood, smearing the mahogany with scarlet as I finally came to rest on the floor, sitting against the bar in a rapidly growing pool of my blood.
My strength left me completely, my chin sinking to my chest as I coughed arterial crimson in thin streams, my suit already soaked through, the blood still under pressure even as my heart stopped beating.
I barely heard the barstool hitting the floorboards beside me, nor did I see Janice sinking to her knees in front of me – but I felt her hand as it lifted my head, her lips finding mine once more. I focused on her touch through a supreme effort of will, fighting back the darkness with what little I had left.
“I s-shouldn’t love you, M-Michael. I w-wish I didn’t…”
She held me this time, her tears warming my neck as I felt her sobbing through my ruined chest.
My vision dimmed, my eyelids now too heavy to hold open, my legs now utterly numb as I fought for every tortured, broken breath.
“Hhhnghh… sssshhhhh…sh...shhh…”
My lips moved wordlessly as her slender frame shook against me.
“…t’ll…be all…all…”
I couldn’t hold it any longer. I choked, wheezing as I coughed red foam, the irony tang of blood filling the air, my once pristine shirt now a deep burgundy.
“N-no, i-it won’t.”
My mouth moved ineffectually. I no longer had the strength to draw breathe, never mind speak, but I heard it in my mind, and I could only pray she could read it on my lips.
“I love you, Janice.”
She kissed me one last time on the forehead, and I knew it was the last thing I would ever feel.
“I love you, Michael.”
The hammer struck a sixth, final note.
(Fri 29th Aug 2008, 2:47, More)
Romance is a funny thing.
The air hung still and heavy, seemingly anchored by the thick, omnipresent haze of cigarette smoke – a subtle smell that permeated everyone and everything in the bar as surely as the melancholy meandering notes of the lone saxophone player sat in the corner.
I wouldn’t have noticed her if I hadn’t caught a glimpse of her in the dram of single-malt I had put to my lips, her beauty unmistakable even in the rippling sepia tone of her reflection.
But most importantly, it was she who had been staring at me, her eyes locked on my back. I halted the scotch’s progress and turned to meet her gaze.
Jade eyes shimmered in a soft, slender face framed in luxurious waves of silky ebony hair, finished with a soft smile that glistened on ruby lips. Her cheeks tinted rose, either from being caught staring or from the empty cocktail glass delicately clasped in her right hand.
I raised the whiskey and tilted it, raising an eyebrow with a slightly cheeky smile of my own. She stood, gathering her purse and walked over to the bar, placing the small red bag between us before elegantly slipping her seductive form onto a barstool beside me, the cut of her little black dress offering a hint of thigh. She turned and smiled demurely.
I finally grew brave enough to break the silence.
“Might I offer you a drink?”
She accepted my offer, and as we sipped from our alcohol of choice we talked. We talked about ourselves, we talked about each other, we spoke of poetry, of vice and of virtue. We spoke for hours, delighting in each other’s company, our drinks left virtually untouched before us as the night grew darker.
I found I loved to make her laugh, watching her joy was a delight in itself, and I shared with her the numerous anecdotes and escapades that comprised of my life. She drank them in, blushing with that incredible demure smile as I likened her hair to the majesty of Hawaiian waterfalls, flushing rose as I asked her in turn of her life.
I sat, in rapt attention, my gaze never straying from hers, blushing a little myself as I caught my gaze becoming lost in her beautiful eyes time and time again. A bond had formed between us, two strangers speaking of life and sharing ours with each other over blushes and shy smiles, simple attraction giving way to a simple need for each other’s company, one that grew more and more romantic as the lighting began to dim, the other patrons taking their leave one by one until we were the only souls there, the barman making himself scarce.
The conversation faltered, leaving us both blushing as we realized we had slowly gravitated towards each other, now scant inches separating our eyes. Then she kissed me.
Our lips met as she softly shut her eyes, a brief embrace of the flesh. Somewhere, somehow, our hands found each other, palms pressed together as she pulled back, her cheeks aflame.
“I-I shouldn’t h-have…” She stammered, softly, and I rushed to stop her.
“I love you, Janice.” The words passed my lips with nary a thought, and I knew then, that very moment, that for once in my life it was true.
Her face crumpled, the delicate trickle of tears tracing matching lines down her face, and I caught her as she leant forwards, wrapping my arms around her and drawing her close.
“Shhh…Shhh… It’ll be alright…”
She sobbed into my chest, pressing herself deeper into my embrace as I made soothing noises, softly stroking the back of her head with gentle motions.
“I s-shouldn’t l-love you… Michael.”
I tilted my head, placing a soft kiss on her forehead, as she mumbled into my shirt.
“Shhh…Shhh… It’ll be alright…”
“M-Marcellus s-sends his regards.”
Oh.
I felt the heat of the shot before I heard it. The sudden blossom of warmth on my sternum registered briefly, all too quickly replaced with a sharp flush of searing agony as the bullet tore a messy exit wound in my back.
My eyes flew open just in time to meet hers.
The hammer fell a second time, the muzzle of the revolver pressed into my ribs.
I gasped, not through shock but necessity as my left lung was punctured a second time.
The cylinder clicked smoothly into place again, a fresh round in the chamber, the hammer falling immediately as the trigger travelled it’s full course, and again and again as she fired another two shots, tearing involuntary strangled noises from my throat with each crack of the pistol.
The only thing I could think of was that she stopped on the fifth round, a smooth, practiced economy of motion that belied her appearances. An assassin’s control. It was then I knew how completely I had been fooled.
I caught a glimpse of her tear-streaked face as I slumped, my arms slipping from around her as I fell against the bar. My legs refused to hold me, and gravity won as I slid down the lacquered hardwood, smearing the mahogany with scarlet as I finally came to rest on the floor, sitting against the bar in a rapidly growing pool of my blood.
My strength left me completely, my chin sinking to my chest as I coughed arterial crimson in thin streams, my suit already soaked through, the blood still under pressure even as my heart stopped beating.
I barely heard the barstool hitting the floorboards beside me, nor did I see Janice sinking to her knees in front of me – but I felt her hand as it lifted my head, her lips finding mine once more. I focused on her touch through a supreme effort of will, fighting back the darkness with what little I had left.
“I s-shouldn’t love you, M-Michael. I w-wish I didn’t…”
She held me this time, her tears warming my neck as I felt her sobbing through my ruined chest.
My vision dimmed, my eyelids now too heavy to hold open, my legs now utterly numb as I fought for every tortured, broken breath.
“Hhhnghh… sssshhhhh…sh...shhh…”
My lips moved wordlessly as her slender frame shook against me.
“…t’ll…be all…all…”
I couldn’t hold it any longer. I choked, wheezing as I coughed red foam, the irony tang of blood filling the air, my once pristine shirt now a deep burgundy.
“N-no, i-it won’t.”
My mouth moved ineffectually. I no longer had the strength to draw breathe, never mind speak, but I heard it in my mind, and I could only pray she could read it on my lips.
“I love you, Janice.”
She kissed me one last time on the forehead, and I knew it was the last thing I would ever feel.
“I love you, Michael.”
The hammer struck a sixth, final note.
(Fri 29th Aug 2008, 2:47, More)
» Redundant technology
Way back in the 90s...
I was working for a software developer who was doing some stuff on peer-to-peer downloads.
Now, back in the day, you could really only do the bog-standard server to client download: Server has the file, you connect to server, download file. Done.
What we were working on was a way to spread the load on the server - bandwidth was expensive those days. So we needed some way of making the client machines do some of the work for us. Bitorrent was yet to arrive, and the idea of having clients downloading separate bits of the file from each other wasn't around either.
Then, one day, I read an article about insect colonies, and how individual critters could spread chemical messages along to each other to reach the main colony quickly - kind of playing pass-the-parcel with pheromones. INSPIRATION!
We knocked out a protocol which essentially re-directed download requests from the server to the clients - one or two clients would download from the server whilst the other clients would be downloading off them - pass-the-parcel! Huzzah!
I named the protocol "ParcelPass". Not particularly flashy, but it worked. Our little protocol netted us a nice little sum and off it went into the interwebs to help corporations get files to people who needed them. All was good.
Then, 6 years later, Bitorrent came onto the scene and had a much better protocol, forcing ParcelPass onto the scrap heap. I was quite upset at first, but then I realised that all my work on ParcelPass was simply Re-done Ant Technology.
*runs*
(Sun 7th Nov 2010, 1:58, More)
Way back in the 90s...
I was working for a software developer who was doing some stuff on peer-to-peer downloads.
Now, back in the day, you could really only do the bog-standard server to client download: Server has the file, you connect to server, download file. Done.
What we were working on was a way to spread the load on the server - bandwidth was expensive those days. So we needed some way of making the client machines do some of the work for us. Bitorrent was yet to arrive, and the idea of having clients downloading separate bits of the file from each other wasn't around either.
Then, one day, I read an article about insect colonies, and how individual critters could spread chemical messages along to each other to reach the main colony quickly - kind of playing pass-the-parcel with pheromones. INSPIRATION!
We knocked out a protocol which essentially re-directed download requests from the server to the clients - one or two clients would download from the server whilst the other clients would be downloading off them - pass-the-parcel! Huzzah!
I named the protocol "ParcelPass". Not particularly flashy, but it worked. Our little protocol netted us a nice little sum and off it went into the interwebs to help corporations get files to people who needed them. All was good.
Then, 6 years later, Bitorrent came onto the scene and had a much better protocol, forcing ParcelPass onto the scrap heap. I was quite upset at first, but then I realised that all my work on ParcelPass was simply Re-done Ant Technology.
*runs*
(Sun 7th Nov 2010, 1:58, More)