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» Voyeurism

Oh God, how I wish I hadn't...
I'm no sylph-like dryad - I'm a 14st bloke. But I do move very quietly, ninja-stylee, and always have done. It's just always been a foible of mine. Scares the shit out of people sometimes, if they don't know I'm there.

So, many years ago, getting home from school one day, I slip into the house fairly silently and am about to start walking up the unavoidably creaky stairs when I hear someone or something make a sound behind the door I'd just passed.

I stop. Did I imagine that? Is someone in the house? Neither the folks nore anyone else are supposed to be back yet.
Freeze, go silent, listen for a minute. No, it's passed, I imagined it.
First step on the stairs, and I hear an unmistakable moan. Oh bloody HELL! That was my DAD! I've never heard that moan before, but in spite of my tender age I know *very well* what that moan is.

What the hell do I do?? I don't want to interrupt or let them know I'm here, because dear Christ I wouldn't want them to know I'd heard what I'd heard. Hell, *I* don't want to know I'd heard it either. And yet, I know, the first step creaks when you step OFF it! If I move, they'll know I'm here!
Shit. Don't panic. Close your ears, wait a few minutes, go to your happy place and, in the heat of the moment, they won't notice you slip away. They'll never know you'd been here. Forget it ever happened. It's a perfect plan...

10 statuesque minutes later I carefully sit down, trying not to transfer my weight. I get out my book and try desparately to shut out the grunting, moaning coming through the wall at me. Oh Christ, now SHE'S at it too! Please God, don't start shouting anything intelligible...

20 minutes later. Still going at it.

30 minutes - oh shit! It's over! It was so sudden, and I'm sat on the step with my book on my lap!
Fuck it, get ready to go. It's time to be stealthy and quick like a god-damned *ninja* and get out of there before they open that door, creak or no creak.

I pack up and it takes me 20 seconds to relieve the pressure on that step, and somehow not a sound escapes it. Like a fucking shadow, I'm across to the door. I'm a fucking hero.
Quick, slick, gently press on the handle, open...

"Oh shit!!" he shouts - there's my Dad, stark-bollock-naked, crabbing back into the room from which he has issued, red-faced and frankly sweatier than my mind can really cope with. Okay, time for ninja fucking deception:

"Jesus Dad, what the hell are you doing? I don't want to come home to your naked arse!" and slam the door like I've just got home.

I'm a god-damned genius.

And my mind is scarred, cracked and weeping, like a herpetic man's crusty member.
(Tue 16th Oct 2007, 0:25, More)

» PE Lessons

Is he REALLY looking at my cock...?
To set the scene: Mr Thompson was always a decidedly shifty character, and part-time PE teacher for my grammar school of yore. The sort who wouldn't look you in the eye, and had a constant habit of absent-mindedly, furiously, jangling his "keys" in the pockets of his baggy, shapeless, perpetually-stained tracky-bottoms.

Well, we all felt a little creeped-out by him, and his insistence on watching all the lads go through the showers to be sure that "we'd all had a proper wash" was a regular ritual in embarrassment, but of course everybody kept quiet and tried not to catch his attention.

Cut to Year 10 or whenever, and a wet and cold "outdoor pursuits" weekend in Wales, supervised by the PE fraternity. Following a particularly unsuccessful canoeing outing, we had all retreated to the hot showers, and once again Mr Thompson stood vigil. Everyone kept their swimming shorts on and quietly wished he'd drop dead, but instead he decided we needed some sanitary exhortation: "Trunks off lads - those bits need cleaning too..."

Well, as if scrubbing our scrotes in front of this character weren't enough to make us all very uncomfortable, he chose that moment to look down at my package and, flat as you like, intone the immortal words: "Peter's brother, are you...?"
Which I am. But Peter had left the school some years previously. How the fuck...

Length, girth, yada yada. Yes, it's big, but that's not the way you want to be informed.
(Fri 20th Nov 2009, 0:55, More)

» Join us... come join the cult

The International Church of Christ
Yep, I was there. The Birmingham branch, back when I was in Uni, and I don't know whether I'm proud or ashamed of the surprisingly large impact I had on 300 people. Highlights of the story:

(Starts boring, but it gets better)

Girlfriend had left me (the bitch is back with me now, but she is a great fuck), parents were going through evil vicious divorce with both ringing me every night for "advice", am in debt, hating degree etc - very depressed. Some fine Scottish filly invites me to a pub quiz with some churchy student bods and they're all quite friendly.

Fast-forward a few months, and my non-church life is still fucked but I'm so popular and successful in this cult that I'm happy to neglect my life. I've taken on some responsibilities & stuff and, being one of the few people of the 200-or-so members to be young, intelligent, charismatic AND energetic enough to not scare everyone away, they put me in charge of "the student ministry".
The BUECU (Brum Uni Evang. Christian Union) denounce my church as a cult and harass me at every turn of course, but I find their - yes - patronising smiles of concern easy to laugh at with knowledge of some basic scripture and some of BUECUs more hypocrytical policies.

I'm still basically depressed and proceed to increasingly divorce my real life from my church persona so, inevitably, I'm fucking things up but don't seem able to stop it. While I'm still very much liked by "the leaders" and indeed something of a Golden Boy during its impressive growth (about doubling in membership over 2 years), I'm also dropping out of my course, having (really really dirty) sex with my boss AND one of the freshers in a flat upstairs whose welfare I'm supposed to be responsible for, and sleeping about 12 hours a day. How I found the time I do not know.

All this, and I'm supposed to be spiritually "more mature" than the 25 people now in my "ministry", who I'm supposed to be "discipling" (referred to as Heavy Shepherding by its detractors - basically, assigning every member a Discipler who challenges, encourages, teaches and damned-well brain-washes the Disciple).

Around this point all the skeletons start falling out of my closet - mainly the sex and depression - but it's barely noticed because there's some serious simultaneous Trouble At The Top - as in the global church leader in LA is being ousted. Massive blow to the churches world-wide, and all the church leaders are being crucified (excuse pun). Everything's looking shaky, but some churches basically manage to hold together through sticking to their basic principles with or without guidance.

Brum church is the central hub for everything north of Watford Gap, so it's a bit make-or-break when the Q&A sessions happen. All the solid members who've been there for years start to get really annoyed at what's happening.

Meanwhile I'm "dis-fellowshipped" (ex-communicated) by the interim leader, who's only a decent young guy who's panicking a bit, but it was all done improperly. I'm distraught and nobody's allowed to contact me except the leaders (though everyone ignored that part 'cos it was all turning runny). When the rest of the solid church membership finds out what's happened they all see red and it turns really nasty.

Seems I was popular enough for this badly-handled event to catalyse a complete schismatic breakdown, and a church of now 300 people totally dissolves in about 3 weeks. I was invited back but declined because I was pretty angry myself.

That was over 2 years ago. I dropped out of my course _formally_, went back home, started life again. Took me a few months to get over it, but now life is pretty good. The girl left the Other Man for me again, dropped her whole life in another city to come be with me :)

It is for that reason that I cannot apologise for length or girth. Anyway, it all fits in the box okay...

There's shit-loads I haven't gone into, but this is the first time I've told the story publicly. Thanks b3ta!

PS There's an entire website devoted to pulling this cult down. I don't think there's much left to do anymore...
(Thu 26th Jan 2006, 22:15, More)

» Stupid Dares

Crisps. *tch*
Primary school kids have no sense of proportion.

Lunchtime, and someone had brought with them a bag of "Brannigan's Beef & Mustard Crisps". These were *special* crisps. They were thick-cut, crunchy, hearty things with proper flavour, and they had what looked like a fat child-molesting butcher on the packet, grinning his fat red grin.

Mustard. Whoooooo. These were *strong* crisps - they'd blow your fucking face off if you put two in your mouth at once. You had to be well 'ard to eat these bastards. Someone ended up in HOSPITAL because of these once, honest!

So of course, he had one crisp, made comical flapping motions and offered them up to the rest of us. Some of them didn't have the guts, but I was game.

"Bet you can't eat 'em all", said my mate. Well I'd decided I could take it. I wasn't a girl.

I ate them all. They were delicious. I received adulation and respect for *days* for that act of consumption. I could eat MAN CRISPS. I was a MAN.

They're fucking CRISPS!!!
(Thu 1st Nov 2007, 18:38, More)

» Good Advice

Heinlein's Rules of Writing Fiction
My brother was trying to write, and he blogged about the following rules for successful writing, as espoused by Robert A Heinlein:

1. You must write.
2. You must finish what you start
3. You must refrain from rewriting, except to editorial order
4. You must put your story on the market
5. You must keep it on the market until it has sold

My brother's wife, a very witty Japanese lady, replied to his blog-post thus:
1. Open fridge
2. Put elephant in fridge
3. Close fridge

Made me chuckle lots, and led me to create my own "advice":
Pithy words of advice are like paracetamol; they're convenient, easy to swallow, everyone always has one and they make you feel a bit better, but ultimately they don't solve the problem.
(Fri 21st May 2010, 10:28, More)
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