» Unexpected Nudity

Caught in the Act
My first girlfriend, to paraphrase Alan Partridge, was “certainly first in the queue when God was handing out chests”. I often remarked/boasted, as teenage boys did back then (the mid-90s), and almost certainly still do now, about her ‘assets’, with my favourite adage being that she “wouldn’t be afraid to go in the showers”. My Dad overheard this one day and added that “she wouldn’t get her feet wet”, which eventually broke forth the floodgates in terms of his array of 1970s sitcom-style innuendo-like references to the female body whenever my girlfriend’s name was mentioned from thereon in.

Anywho, as I was her first boyfriend, we were at the stage where we’d both discovered sex, me with the realisation that girls loved it as much as us boys did, and to use hackneyed phraseology, were ‘at “it” like rabbits’, most of the limited free time we had alone together; and as sixth form students with free periods and parents who both worked and younger siblings who were both in full-time education, was a lot more frequent than not.

So it passed, that one Friday afternoon, we had a free period that clashed, so adjourned to her parents’ house for some vaginally-penetrative sexual intercourse. Finding the house alone, it being daytime and all, she cheekily suggested getting down to it in the living room, and feeling the stirring in my Y-front garden (I was yet to discover the world of Calvin Klein), I was not one to cause an argument, so we soon found ourselves inflagrante on the sofa, me going away like a Singer sewing machine.

After about five minutes it happened, the catalyst to this story. “Cum on my tits” she whispered to me, mid-pushback. Wow! This was to be a first for me, the prospect of my errant member going near her bousies! The fact that she was requesting ejaculate on her mamms, would be akin to asking the Titanic to clear its bilge tanks over the dark side of the moon (and I don't mean a Pink Floyd album cover), but reaching one’s climax over a girl’s thrupnies did not require a second invitation, so I duly withdrew my, by now, pulsing gutstick from her Hong Kong garden, was met with ‘the gasp’ (not dissimilar to ‘the gasp’ when ‘it’ went ‘in’ five minutes previously), and proceeded to waddle forward on my knees, like a weary Muslim on his fifth call to Mecca that day, and straddled her, lad in hand, ready to begin stroking like a stroppy Andy Murray until the bald man cried forth his milky treat.

I was jerking away when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye at the window. Now, UK residential planning isn’t what it used to be, especially in this part of Oxfordcestershire, and parallel to their living room window was their neighbours’ driveway. I espied a block of dark blue slowly moving from left to right, and, looking up, still mid-tug, saw the next-door neighbour’s car slowly reversing down their drive. When I mentioned parallel to the drive, they could, despite the partial net curtaining of most of the window, see into the living room, should they choose to do so. In my struggle for freedom, I did not notice whether they had indeed looked in, so carried on with my personal Battle of the Bulge. It was only when that I realised, lump in throat and lump in cock, that the same block of dark blue was now slowly moving from right to left; yes, I had been spotted, and they were coming (unlike me) back to make sure their eyes hadn’t deceived them! Well fuck me sideways with a lolly stick! thought I.

So, I did what any proud Englishman would do – I carried on; I was in Sarson's Street for fucks's sake. I clocked their aghast, open mouths, and red–faced and sweating, continued to beat away for Harry, St George and England. I braved the possible ‘what would the neighbours say’ scenario (they weren’t my neighbours after all) and fed fuel to the likelihood they wouldn’t be able to look that nice girl next door in the eye again. She carried on looking my chap in the eye, and I eventually managed to bring my thought processes back to the matter at hand, eventually dousing her Devil’s dumplings with a liberal sprinkling of holy water. Like the true gentleman that I still am to this day, I did not share what I’d seen with her, and neither to my knowledge did her neighbours. We split up a couple of months later when I realised not only do girls love it as much as we do, but some let you do even more naughtier things with them. Like drawing the curtains. Then letting you wipe your cock on them afterwards.
(Fri 29th May 2009, 11:27, More)

» PE Lessons

Hockey
Without wanting to sound like a black sheep so early on, unlike the majority of the posts so far this week I bloody loved PE when I were at Secondary School. I represented the School in Rugby, Football and Cricket, and when we moved Campuses to start our GCSEs (now known as Year 10) at the tender age of 14, us lads were introduced to hockey.

Now for some reason I found an extra-special aptitude for this queer old non-contact sport; I scored goals for fun. In my first-ever hockey-based PE lesson I scored nine goals. The premise seemed to be that one kid would actually connect with the ball and knock it twenty or thirty yards or so, the 'defence' would attempt to stop the ball by chopping their sticks down on the ground, albeit too late, and yours truly would 'latch on' to the through ball using his cheetah-esque pace and score.

So it was that the School decided that a decent number of Year 10 lads seemed OK-enough hockey players, and a team was formed and fixtures arranged against local Oxfordshire Schools, with me being selected as centre-forward, on account of my prolificacy in front of goal (I had, by this point, scored 26 goals in four PE lessons).

So it was that we played our first match. I soon realised that the tried-and-tested routine - run onto through-ball that the defence completely messes up the act of cutting out - wasn't going to work, as the opposing School had obviously selected guys at the back who had mastered the basic art of stopping a hockey ball coming towards them. I did manage to pinch a goal in that game, and we drew 2-2. Not a bad result at all considering it was our 'debut' hockey match.

Our next game was against a local college - bigger lads than us - so we were to be up against it. Our School had the genius stroke of playing the game to coincide with the School lunch break, so we would receive support from a large number of pupils and teachers midway through the first half and most of the second. We got an early goal to calm our nerves, and I struck just before half-time to put us two-up, just as bodies started beginning to congregate around the pitch. I added to my tally early on in the second period, to some cheers and applause and although they pulled one back, we had a cushion. We scored a fourth, and with ten minutes to go I was eyeing my hat-trick.

So fate prevailed. A through ball was missed by the defence, and I had the chance I wanted. One-on-one with the 'keeper, I advanced rapidly, let him leave the sanctity of his line, and as he rushed towards me I calmly stroked the ball to his right, the ball noisely clacking against the wooden backing of the goal.

The adrenaline was really flowing now. I was pumped, I had an audience, and so, in split-second, my adolescent brain made the democratic decision to play to the crowd and celebrate. I was to lower my shorts and moon them.

Now, this manoeuvre generally requires stealth and dexterity as well as a cessation of movement before the lowering of the flag can take place if you'll pardon the expression. I, however, decided to lower my undercarriage whilst still in motion. I managed to wrest my shorts down to expose the top half of my buttocks, but in this process I managed to lose my balance and tumbled to the ground, one hand clasping my hockey stick, the other gingerly holding my shorts. As I had no hands free to necessitate a soft landing, I hit the ground hard and my hand freed itself of my shorts which dug into the turf as I landed, lowering themselves (and my underwear) to that sacred area between groin and knee, exposing my Crown Jewels to all and sundry.

It not being the warmest day on record, my genitalia had decided to adopt the appearance of a garden snail slowly retreating back into its shell. Thus, not only did I receive dentention after a trip to the Headmaster's office to explain my action (which I also had to explain in writing) but the paucity of my giggle stick prevented me from being deemed a worthy suitor until well into my A-Levels...
(Fri 20th Nov 2009, 1:07, More)

» Helicopter Parents

My ex...
...used to say that wherever she was, her Dad was always looking down on her.

He wasn't dead, he was just very condescending.
(Mon 14th Sep 2009, 12:20, More)

» IT Support

The Server Room
As I’m sure most of you do, I work in an office. Although recently promoted to an external role (car, laptop, phone, tenkyouveddymuch) I’m still in the office quite frequently, usually trawling through the latest QoTW posts all day when I am. I’m not in IT Support, nor have I ever been, nor do I intend to be. Our IT Support guys are pretty good, although the two guys do remind me of the Matthew Holness (AKA Garth Marenghi) character who briefly appeared in an episode of The Office, repairing Gareth’s PC (they also have a young assistant – a 22-year-old brunette with the perfect figure, lustrous hair, gorgeous deep blue eyes and breasts like street bollard tops, but I’ll save that for Thursday’s QoTW – Good Looking IT Personnel).

Anyroadup, this story goes back a few years (several) to when we were based in our old offices. Now, we as a company realised quite early on that in our line of work, it was simply not worth the hassle of opening between Christmas and New Year. All our customers shut down, and as we don’t deal with the general public, the phone hardly rings and as a consequence it becomes too expensive to open. Anyhoo, this particular year we’d decided to open up, albeit with skeleton staff and reduced working hours (10 till 4). I was manning the ‘sales desk’ on my own as we weren’t envisioning any volume of calls whatsoever. This meant that yours truly was destined to spend 6 hours on t’interweb when I should have been at home watching films and topping up lost alcohol levels, what with it being the season of goodwill and everything.

So, it transpired that, after 2 hours of doing c*ck-all, and managing to visit all the sites that I could think of and have an interest in, old Captain One-Eye began to commandeer my thought processes and suggested that I might wish to perhaps visit some *ahem* gentleman-friendly sites. So, a cursory glance around the office (I think there were six people including myself in) confirmed that three people were at their desks, engrossed in whatever it was they were doing, and a fourth, an Accounts woman, was filing. So, I began to gingerly finger an entry into the search engine and enjoy the transformation of my screen from a dour grey and blue to a plethoric explosion of cream and pink.

Unfortunately, half an hour of this was leading to some kind of explosion below the Equator so to speak, and thoughts began to race in my head as to what I could do about this. I was getting turned on as fuck and really needed to crack one off to put it mildly. There was no-one in the office who could see my screen, or notice my surreptitious excitement. So I made a democratic decision to take a trip to the conveniences and shake hands with the President.

The toilet was located downstairs (only one – it was a small office), but to my horror, it was engaged. Undeterred, and with my caber on the verge of being tossed, I espied the door to the server room ajar. I rushed inside and pulled the door ‘to’. I unleashed my, by now, quivering and pulsing gutstick and began polishing the Pope’s cap with rapidity, knowing that this would be a swift military operation. I managed maintain an air of quiet as I approached the Billy Mill roundabout, for fear of being caught, and at the point of no return, managed to extract a tissue from my pocket and caught my filthy yogurt. My heart beating in my ears and mouth, I swallowed each breath and managed to scrunch up the "remains of the day" and popped my, by now, fading glory back into its home, and began to make my way out when I heard a familiar voice say ‘Alright Sonora?’. Fuckshitfuckshitfuckshitfuckshit; the one IT guy who had to be in today had been in the server room doing whatever IT guys do in the server room and caught me at it! I mumbled, ‘Er yeah, alright mate!’ in a passable impersonation of Emo Phillips crossed with Bobcat Goldthwaite and legged it out of there.

As I reached the top of the stairs, I managed to bump into our then Financial Director; this woman, who said ‘You OK, Sonora?’, on account of my flustered, crimson-cheeked appearance. I managed to blurt out, ‘YeahOKjustfinejustthoughtI’drunupthestairsandblowawaysomeofthoseChristmascobwebsahahahahaha!’ and ran back to my desk as I realised that I was still holding the evidence and that also I’d managed to drop some of my goo on my shoe thanks to my carelessness in ‘catching the impossible’ with the tissue.

I still work with the IT guy, and to this day he’s never mentioned anything to my face, although he smiles at me when he’s in the (new) server room in the new offices and I walk past. I’m sure he was probably at the same thing when I was and it’s only the ‘guy code’ that keeps him from revealing it. I think...
(Wed 30th Sep 2009, 15:59, More)

» Failed Projects

Toy Box
As the nipper started to grow he managed to acquire toys in much the same manner as Imelda Marcos acquired footwear. This presented a problem space-wise, as there were only certain parts of our cosy three-bed house that we could secrete these toys away to. We needed some form of storage. Then my (now ex-) wife hit upon the idea of a toy box.

This presented her with yet another opportunity to peruse both the IKEA and Argos catalogues, dog-earing the relevant pages, and attempting to gain my interest by saying things such as "Ooo, this one looks nice and it's only £19.99". Sloblocks, thought I. Why should I have to fork out nineteen pounds and ninety-nine pence of my hard-earned sterling monies in order to secure an item that would allow me to hide away my son's toys when he wasn't playing with them in order to give my house a semblance of orderliness?

So what alternative did I have? Well, I knew we had some wood in the garage. I was going to be brave. I was going to be bold. I was going to attempt to make something...

Now, let me make it clear that DIY was not my forte. I seem to have sprung from a generation where DIY was as popular as Ian Huntley at a kindergarten, which was strange as the previous generation, my Dad included, would try their hands at anything home-improvement related. But to me, this was going to be my chance to prove my worth. Indeed more to prove to myself that I could actually do it. I had the tools for the job. I was going to create.

Things didn't get off to a great start when I made my first attempt at sawing into one of the pieces of wood and somehow managed to elbow myself in the Beadles. But unperturbed, I soldiered on. I had managed to put two sides together when disaster struck. Whilst holding part of the wood steady in the Work-Mate I managed to saw into my finger. Blood immediately began to spurt forth from the incision in the manner of a Sam Peckinpah film. I rushed inside the house, effusing a tirade of expletives. My wife, a nurse, took one look at my state of woe and advised a swift trip to A+E.

After a brief wait (God bless triage) I was seen to, the wound cleaned and bandaged and I was sent on my way. An appointment made to see a consultant a week later at the same hospital to check on the healing progress of the wound.

So a week passed and I made my way back to the hospital. I waited my turn and was called into see the consultant, an Asian gentleman. It was only when I noticed his name badge that it dawned on me who he was...only bloody former Indian spin bowler NARENDRA HIRWANI!!!.

Well, the state of my finger was relegated to the background as the conversation naturally leaned towards cricket, me being a cricketing fan. I asked him all about his debut Test against the West Indies where he took 16 for 137, with eight-fors in both innings. He seem pleasantly surprised with my knowledge on the subject although came across as rather modest about his achievements. I, however, was becoming rather carried away and said "when you took the wicket of Desmond Haynes LBW in the second innings, did the umpire raise his finger like this?" and stood up and raised my index finger.

As I did this, the fresh scab on the wound ruptured, spraying blood over his desk and onto his shirt. Stony-faced, he re-bandaged me, gave me a re-appointment date then asked me to leave. I didn't go back, and the finger healed.

And we ended up going out and buying a toy storage box...
(Sat 5th Dec 2009, 18:18, More)