Hmmm okay
Slept with my Mom's best friends daughter. Next morning waking up, still drunk. My best friend texts me

"Ha, you're like Joe and Reedy now. Will likes the big girls"

The girl was looking over my shoulder. Not wanting to hide the text and make it look like I had something to hide. I show her the text message.

Oh dear. That wasn't a good idea.

As a side note, I don't like the big girls. I was drunk and felt terrible about it, especially as she is a lovely girl and her whole family are really nice. Which just made it even more cringeworthy the next time I had to face her Mother when giving her little brother a guitar lesson.
(Dangerous Disco Trev Isn't my real name, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 14:16, 1 reply)

Mr Bean on a bad day...
I used to live in St Albans many years ago. I'd done all the pubbing, clubbing and all that and having learnt to play a musical instrument many years previously I joined the local orchestra.

To be fair, I felt a bit out of place - seemingly 20 years younger than the next youngest person there. Of course, my youth meant waves of disapproval were directed at me - I was obviously untrustworthy, unreliable, typical of `young people today'.

Anyway - come the big concert in the middle of town...the one reviewed in the local paper, attended by the mayor and other worthies. Sellout performance in fact...probably round a 1000 people in the audience.

Of course, I was late getting there. Stuck in traffic. Cursing the traffic, cursing myself and knowing that everyone in the damn orchestra would have been justified in their lack of faith in me. I got there 2 minutes before the performance started. Luckily, I played an instrument which meant I could nip in round the back and get to my seat without too much fuss. Could I find the way in to the backstage area?

Could I fuck.

As I began to panic, I thought `No one will notice me notice me nipping up the stairs at the side' - straight up them, straight to my seat. Job done. It was quite dark and the audience were talking...i.e. Waiting for the conductor to...go up the stairs.

Yes. I got a round of applause by the entire audience as the spotlight was quite literally turned on me. I waved my arm in dismissal to indicate that I wasn't the conductor.

Just a sad case who was now hoping for a big crack in the stage to open up so I could hide in it.

Length? 2 1/2 hours long before I scuttled out, never to return again.
(Audax Victor, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 14:14, 1 reply)

Charity Begins at Home
OK, I'm fully aware that I have posted this before on OT, but it holds up to retelling, even though it makes me look like the prize cunt in a cunt contest.

I had been living in Scotland for a bit, before I moved down to Leeds so this was around 4-5 years ago. I had got quite friendly with a nice lass and we had arranged to go out for a semi-date, just a bite to eat and a drink, to see if there was anything worth pursuing there.

We'd had a nice time, enjoying food and a nice bottle of red in one of Hawick's limited number of eateries, and we decided to carry on the evening at the next pub.

We strolled along Hawick's main street, regaling each other with tales of youthful misadventures and follies. At one point, she slipped her arm through mine. It was becoming a rather idyllic evening.

Then, without warning, my cunty streak came out to play. As we passed a charity shop, I paused and pointed with one indignant finger. To this day, I have no idea what posessed me to say what I said. Let's just say I can usually be relied on to say exactly the wrong thing in any given situation.

What I said was;

"See that charity shop there?"
"Yes?" was her apprehensive reply, obviously unsure where this could possibly be going.
"I passed there this afternoon, and they had a Down's Syndrome lass waving a tin outside it. Isn't that like the worst bit of emotional blackmail ever?"

Her eyes widened. Fear began to show, and her arm slipped from mine.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"Getting a fucking spastic rattling a tin outside a charity shop!" I was in full rant now.
"Designed to tug on the heartstring, isn't it?"

She looked at me with undisguised, and completely understandable disdain.
"That charity shop there?" she motioned with an affronted jab of the chin.
"Yeah!" I said.

Then the bombshell.

"That was my sister."

It was said calmly enough, but I couldn't have been more taken aback if she'd carved it in stone and whacked me in the face with it.

My brain frantically tried to come up with a way out. Eventually, after a minute or so of me standing with my mouth open, looking, well, not unlike her sister it has to be said, I decided it was a lost caused and to back down or apologise would be hypocritical.

"Well, my point still stands!" I stood back, defiant; arms folded.

One smack round the face later, I walked to the next pub alone. Where I told this sorry tale, and was bought numerous ales for causing much mirth among my friends. Silver lining and all that....
( Boss Keloid Got your mother's maiden name tattooed on my arm, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 13:49, 11 replies)

Texas Hold 'em
On various occasions myself and a few friends will gather together with a few beverages and some nibbles for a night of bluffing and card based tomfoolery. I’m not much of a player but it tends to be swings and roundabouts so there’s no real hurting done.

Except the once.

I was dealt a peach of a pair for my hole cards: ACES! GET IN! I placed my cards on the table and with my customary bland expression started to raise the betting. All the opposition bar one dropped out when the first three cards were flopped. A pair of jacks and an ace! Full House! ALL IN!!! And he matched it. “On your backs lads” said the dealer and I watched as my opponent turned over a pair of jacks. It was at this point I looked down to turn my cards over and realised I’d played the entire hand with my cards face up. I still haven’t lived it down. Or the fact I still need a cheatsheet to determine who has won.
(porkylips looks better as the sun goes down., Tue 2 Dec 2008, 13:45, 2 replies)

A Tale of Lust, Hanson and Dumb Waiters
How I wish I could claim this story as my own, but lamentably it belongs to the singer from my band, a source of constant amusement.

Many years ago Earl (name changed slightly to protect the guilty) was courting a young lady with high prospects, this had been underway for some time and he had finally got to the stage of being invited back to hers for, he hoped, the opportunity to make the beast with two backs.

On arriving at her gaff he finds that this is a large 3 storey Victorian affair in which the girl lives with her parents.

Metaphorically rubbing his hands with glee, Earl skipped merrily* up the stairs to the bedroom of this comely young lady.

(*may not have skipped merrily)

I feel at this stage that I should point out the due to his appearance Earl had been mistaken on several occasions for the oldest one out of that shit band Hanson. Tall, long face, long blonde hair.

Thus, stepping into the shrine to Hanson that was this girl's bedroom was quite a shock to him.

Every square inch of the walls was covered by posters of Hanson, and the oldest one in particular.

Naturally, as he was likened to the guy from Hanson quite a lot in those days (these days it's Chris Martin, not sure which is worse) he didn't take this as a coincidence and thought that he should make like a truck full of donkeys and haul ass!

Hastily making his excuses he left the room and made to leave the house.

Here the story should end, and that would be fairly cringeworthy in itself but no, Earl is well known among his friends for not really thinking things through before he does them.

Fortunate for us as we have a long list of hilarious stories to listen to, but I hope that my band will get at least one album recorded before he does himself some serious mischief.

Most of us would have indeed left the house via the stairs and the door, but Earl had other ideas. As he passed the dumb waiter that serviced the top floor of this house I can only assume that the thoughts running through his mind (if any) involved "When am I going to get another chance to do this?"

Without hesitation he clambered into the dumb waiter (I'm assured it was a large dumb waiter) and slammed the door shut behind him.

and plummeted 3 stories to come crashing down in the kitchen in an explosion of wood which quite surprised the girl's father who was in the kitchen at the time.

Usually by this point in the tale we are all laughing so hard that the narrative runs dry, but as far as I can tell the guy was so dazed by the fact that some young moron had ridden his dumb waiter in some kind of insane death plunge that he escorted Earl from his house and nothing more was said of it.

I do know that my mate never saw or spoke to the girl again.

Hopefully this will amuse. If so, or even if not, I might decide to share with you some other incidents from Earl's back catalogue, such as the Indiana Jones incident, or the Dog Rape....
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 13:41, 9 replies)

Stairs and Stares
During my 28 years on this green and pleasant Earth I have accumulated a number of cringe-worthy tales, usually ably assisted by liberal quantities of alcohol.

On this particular occasion I had been assisted to the point of coercion as various friends had ensured that I was frankly no use to man, nor beast. I can't remember if it was a special event, all I can recall is the grisly (well ok, not at all pretty) aftermath.

I had been helped to bed by some (male) friends who had lugged me upstairs, stripped me naked, for reasons only known to them (not that sort of tale, don't worry), and left me to sleep it off with nary a shaven eyebrow, scrotum or even a light Dirty Sanchez. This I can assure you, was most unusual.

I must have blearily swam back to consciousness at one point, my bladder posting subtle hints through my dreams, more than likely 'WAKE UP YOU DRUNKEN CUNT, YOU NEED A PISS!'. I vaguely recall stumbling out of bed, making it to the loo and siphoning the old python. Then things went awry. I stumbled out of the bathroom, intending to head left back to my bedroom.

My left foot went left. My right foot went right. Into thin air. The stairs were also to the right.

Witness a very drunk and battered BK lying naked and moaning on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, like Ed Norton in American History X, without, I'm pleased to say, neo-Nazis and buggery.

Trying to stand, I realised upon collapsing again, that I had badly fucked up my ankle. I crawled into the living room and hauled myself onto the sagging, and rather womb-like sofa, and fell asleep again.

I awoke on hearing voices. Peeling my eyes open I heard one in particular. "How man BK, you pleased to see us or something?" My vision swimming like Eric the Eel back into focus, I recognised Lyndsey, my housemate Dave's busty Geordie girlfriend, accompanied by Dave, and his mate.

I realised I was lying spreadeagled and naked on the couch with a badly sprained ankle, and it was, if you get my drift, morning, if so far from glorious as to be absurd. Yes, it wasn't just my ankle that was swollen.

All trace of pride and dignity lost to the winds of time, I gave a sheepish grin and hobbled from the room, my forlorn erection bobbing like a skinny pig snuffling for truffles.

Length? Lyndsey confided in me later she thought it had been quite impressive. Which was some small comfort.
( Boss Keloid Got your mother's maiden name tattooed on my arm, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 13:24, 6 replies)

blimey! its like the bermuda triangle in here
another BOAT just vanished

whoosh - gone, just like that.

total mystery


?
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 12:50, 3 replies)

Bus Bus Bus
I was sitting on a bus, on my way to see that dancing baby all the papers were talking about. We pulled up at a stop and a man got on. His trousers were too big, or his legs were too small. The bus must have been early, because the driver didn't pull away for three more minutes, and in those moments it all went wrong.

The sun had already set. As I glanced out of the window I saw a girl just standing there. She wasn't getting on the bus. I wondered to myself where she was going. I knew that the 81a came through this way, but she seemed like too nice a girl for that neck of the woods. I must have been staring for too long, because our eyes met, and she smiled. Instinctively I readjusted my focus to see my reflection in the window. She wasn't smiling because I had something on my face. She was smiling because we'd had a moment, like something from an advert.

As the doors of the bus closed, signalling it was time to go, she raised her hand to her mouth and then down again. She was blowing me a kiss! I did the only thing I could have done. I caught the kiss and put it in my shirt pocket. When she raised her hand to her mouth for a second time I saw something I hadn't noticed before; the cigarette. She was only smoking. It was the worst thing ever.
(sadbearhandbook, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 12:32, Reply)

Stripped emotions and a bottle of rum
I have a very beautiful friend who used to work as a stripper, however she decided that taking her clothes off in seedy clubs would not compliment her chosen career as a primary school teacher. (Although both seem to involve standing in front of a load of incoherent, dribbling humans – it’s just that the money is much better for the former).

It was a few years after she had hung up her 5 inch stilettos and started wearing sensible dresses with boots that she met an enchanting young gentleman and fell in love. She had always told him about her previous life as a stripper – the name she used, the clubs where she worked, the sugar daddy who lavished her with expensive dinners etc., but this was as far as it went.

Then one evening, about 10 months into their relationship, they staggered home from a wonderful alcohol fuelled night out. This seemed like as good a time as any to revive her stripper routine one last time, for his eyes only. Time to build it up.

"I'm Jessica. I'm a stripper, I've heard it all before, sweetheart. Tell me something I've never heard..."

“ok... I want to marry you.”

At which point she runs out of the room, crying uncontrollably and hysterically, and barricades herself in the bathroom. For the next few hours, she alternates between lying cataleptic on the tiles of the bathroom floor and making walrus noises down the big white telephone to God. In turn, he paces around the flat, repeatedly tries knocking on the door to see if she will unlock it or at least let him know she is going to be ok and wondering what to do.

It was only the following day that she remembered that what he actually said was "I'm pretty sure I might want to marry you". So not "I want to marry you". Two expressions of uncertainty in one sentence. Not a commitment phobe, oh no, not he. Though apparently that is enough to make her cry with joy.

And in other developments, he has now moved into her house, they are fostering a dog, but avoid any suggestions of marriage or stripping.
( kitsune-tsuki tankeløst hode får lettest sove, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 12:31, Reply)

Drum roll maestro
At the pretentious grammar school I reluctantly went to, my participation in additional activities was minimal (they didn't play football ffs). However, at 14, I was persuaded to play percussion in the school's 2nd orchestra (yes, apparently 1 orchestra wasn't enough).
This was no problem for me as I was a drummer and my parts were simple jobs like banging a bass drum or clashing cymbals. Easy.

If I had known the horror that awaited me I would definitely have stayed clear.

The first big performance came around and all the various school musical acts were out in force - orchestras, choirs, bands etc.
All the local top knobs were there, from the board of governors to local mayors etc.
Also sat proudly in the audience was my dad, himself a former drummer, eagerly awaiting the first live performance from his son. The audience were sat below the stage, which was nothing more than a series of staggered layers (think huge steps). Anticipation hung in the air...

Leaving nothing to chance, I had made sure all my equipment was set up beforehand. However when the time came for us to take the stage I was horrified to see that whichever group/band/orchestra was on before us had moved it all. Panicking, I started running around trying to find my missing gear while the rest of the orchestra was seated and waiting patiently.

I found the cymbals quickly and put them down. Bemused silence was punctuated with the occasional stifled giggle from the audience.
I then managed to locate the bass drum right at the top and started taking it back when, it slipped out of my now profusely sweating hands...

*BOOM*
roll
*BOOM*
roll
*BOOM* *CRASH* (cymbals went flying)
roll
*BOOM*
roll
*OUCH!

Yes, the bass drum rolled right down the various levels of the stage. In what seemed like slow motion I gave chase. Each drop made a louder bang and I could see the face of the headmaster coming closer into view. Off the stage it rolled, onto the floor and flew straight into the knee of the aforementioned disciplinarian. I came skidding to a halt just short of crashing into him myself, my now blood-drained face inches away from the steam-emitting demonic vision that held sway over my academic success. Nothing could save my now from eternal punishment...

...except for the now uncontrolled laughter which had broken out all around us.

Every man, woman, boy and girl in the house was secreting tears of hilarity. The headmaster looked around and composed himself, before giving a hearty laugh himself. I squeaked a small "sorry", picked up my drum and returned to the stage.

My Dad reckons it was the best concert he's ever seen. And that is how I became known as the drum roll maestro.
(dahogga is exiting stage left, pursued by a bear, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 12:24, 1 reply)

Can I have your money?
Just after my A-levels, I went on an expedition to Ecuador. The first stage of this involved staying on a farm run by a mad expat Belgian called Piet and working for him. We lived and ate with the family.

The food was basic, but good. A typical breakfast would involve mango, papaya, and pineapple all fresh from the tree; on a couple of occasions, it involved little doughnut things. These were still hot and were all-round wonderful.

All they needed was a bit of sugar. I asked Anna, who was sat next to me and who spoke more Spanish than I (I'd got through the Teach Yourself book, but wasn't confident), what the word for sugar was.
"Sucre," she told me.
It sounded reasonable.
"¿Señora, tiene sucre?" I stammered.

La Señora looked at me oddly. I repeated my question. She looked at me more oddly.

The Spanish for "sugar" is "azúcar".

Sucre is the name of the local currency.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 12:12, Reply)

Beckham ain't got shit on me.
Playing football in the playground at lunchtime.

We’re being watched by a group of girls from our year, including the unresponsive object of my undying love (for that week anyway)

I’m chasing the ball near them, I get it, step on it, pull it back, spin and deliver a sweetly struck left footed cross onto the head of a friend who knocks it straight in the back of the net (well, against the wall between the bags that were marking the goal)

To say I am pleased is an understatement.

I decide now is the time to act nonchalant, I turn to the girls, give a slight, relaxed grin and then as I walk away I spit on the floor.

Hey, I’d seen footballers do it on the telly, so it seemed like a good idea, OK?

Except somehow the spit doesn’t break, and a long, thick line of saliva instead dangles from my mouth, down my chin and onto my shirt.

It’s pretty disgusting.

As the looks on their faces confirms.

I try to wipe it away casually, but succeed only in spreading it across my face.

Humiliated, I jog off back to the game only to step on a coke can that has been dropped on the concrete.

My foot slides out from under me, and I crunch to the floor, landing on my left elbow and jarring my shoulder so much that I was sure it was wrenched out of its socket.

Yes, I cried.

Like a baby.

As it happened, I only jarred it, but had to have it in a pink foam sling for a week.

Claire never did agree to go out with me.

Can’t imagine why.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 12:07, 2 replies)

More effective than a cold shower...

All aboard the ‘wavy lines express’…

~~~~~~~~~~~~’this happened fucking ages ago’ wavy lines~~~~~~~~

When I was sixteen I was going out with an angel. She possessed a perfectly balanced combination of being smart, beautiful, and sexy as hell. She was the girl in the neighbourhood that every girl wanted to be like, and every boy wanted to be with…

…and she was mine.

Occasionally, she would let me have a tinkle on her organ…it was one of those keyboards with a built in drum machine and I loved to play it. We used to spend every evening round her parents house. Just innocently kissing, snuggling, and talking for hours about planning a future together. Life was good.

So it was nothing unusual when we found ourselves in the same situation one night. We were both lying on her bed, chatting about how my band would ‘make it big’ one day…

And then she kissed me. Nothing strange about that, but this time it seemed…well…different…more spontaneous and urgent somehow. Being on a permanent state of ‘Horny Alert’, I didn’t need too much prompting to respond in kind.

She then began to run her hands through my hair and then gently but roughly pulled my head back…

‘Oh, so it’s going to one of ‘those’ snuggles is it?...Pooflake, you lucky devil’ I said to myself.

(If they hadn’t been previously and more importantly occupied, I would have rubbed my hands together with fiendish adolescent glee.)

She began to pull her blouse open...and in no time my heart was pounding…as it needed to be, just to sustain the amount of blood flow rushing to my massively engorged teenage love truncheon.

Sensing the sheer passion and momentum building as our lips remained pressed together, I slid my right hand down the back of her jeans, savouring the feel of delicate lace on her arse cheeks. I then moved back, before gently peeling her panties down just enough so I could contact the wonderful flesh itself. Whilst stroking, massaging and cupping her spectacular breasts with my left hand, she groaned to announce her approval and pushed her darting tongue a little bit further and harder into my mouth.

We were now entwined together, exchanging enthusiastic and encouraging moans as waves of pleasure began to sweep over us both…my right hand began probing ever lower and deeper, before engaging the previously-forbidden ‘sweet-spot’ that began to responded so sensitively to my every touch, and soon I was aching to take it further…

I loved her…I respected her…but this was raw passion. Instinct was taking over. I desperately wanted to have her.

As I pushed my fingers inside her, she bucked her hips and began to squirm as I tenderly rubbed against her soft mound and inserted my grateful fingers evermore deeply into her. She then surprised me by taking hold of my hand and gently inserting one of my fingers into her succulent arse, breathing heavier as she writhed and was obviously enjoying every second of the experience as we began to push our boundaries ever further…

She then ran her nails down my back, before moving round to fumble at the button fly on my jeans. I could feel her trying to keep in control but before long she was tugging frantically on my belt and she managed to pop open the buttons on my fly with one hand.

I gasped as she reached in and took hold of my throbbing phallus, before firmly and determinedly starting to rub up and down the bulging shaft…all the time I was laying on top of her and our mouths were locked together in an ecstatic embrace.

We were two teenagers standing at the precipice between love and lust, exploring each other’s bodies with youthful foolhardiness, but at this precise moment we were finally willing to cast off the shackles of childhood and cross the threshold into the one true, perfect, beautiful shared intimacy.

Then she breathily whispered to me…”I love you…and I want you….to fuck me”

“mmm” I reply, trying hard not to say the wrong thing, whilst relishing each word that I had been so aching to hear…my whole life thus far had existed for this precise moment.

I begin to slide my jeans down and she pulls on her own…just enough to expose the exquisite view of the heaven that awaited me…

Her breasts were now moving rapidly in time to her sighs, we were mere seconds away from securing our love forever, and I wanted it to be right, to take care, to be gentle, yet firm, and ensure that this was no rushed, fumbling affair. I was to be courteous to her needs and put her first. The love we were about to make was going to be real love…

Pushing my hips a little closer towards her I began to feel the beginning of her delicious wetness on the very tip of my shaft. I realised that this.was.it…the point of no return…

In a final act of chivalry, I decided to check with her once and for all that she was ready before we continued, that we were both prepared to indulge in the life changing, irreversible decision of losing our virginity. Right there. Right then. That way.

Panting with anticipation…I gently ask: ”Are you ok…?”


…


“No, she isn’t” comes a voice from behind me.

I crank my neck around to see her Mum...stood there holding two cups of tea and with a face like smashed granite. She then places the cups down on my girlfriend’s dresser and leaves the room, closing the door behind her without another word.

“Ohfuckinghellfuckinghellfuckinghell!” my girlfriend and I mouth to each other, with eyes wide, jaws agape, and underwear round our knees.

In my blind panic, I try to assess the situation: “How long do you think she was there?” I ask my girlfriend…

Then a voice booms from just outside the bedroom door: “Long enough” said her mum.

My girlfriend and I started spending evenings at my house for a while after that.

So now you all know why the ‘cup of tea by the side of the bed’ joke doesn’t make me laugh quite so much as it should.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Tue 2 Dec 2008, 12:04, 10 replies)

Oh my gods...
Just cringing at the fact that I think I've contributed more to this question than any other I've replied to.
(paof2 Nude might not be rude, but rude could be nude..., Tue 2 Dec 2008, 11:50, Reply)

The most crigeworthy thing I ever did has to be
writing long boring lies about how cool I am on a forum which was originally intended for sick humour.
The pinnacle of my achievement in this area was treating a sick-humour page as some sort of agony aunt column so I could exploit my horrific upbringing for attention.
( baldmonkey a frothy foul-smelling vaginal discharge, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 11:50, 12 replies)

Tube Nightmare
First of all, I can guarantee you that this is the God's (or Dawkins' if you're that way inclined) truth.

I was enduring a particularly long tube journey, when it came to my attention that there were a significant proportion of women standing up. Now, I would usually be terribly British about such a situation and merely tut under my breath. However, for some unknown reason I decided I was going to combat this situation. So I picked my target, a young bloke in his 20's who could have quite easily stood up, like myself and offered his seat to one of the ladyfolk.

Filled with chivalrous indignation, I approached him and uttered the painfully polite:

"Excuse me sir, I strongly suggest that you offer your seat to one of the many women who are standing"

While this may have yielded a rather positive attitude from the rest of the carriage, the standing female contingent in particular, the seated chap who I'd confronted seemed less than pleased. He didn't say a word, he just stared at me. Sensing it wise not to press matters further, I decided to call a halt to my chivalrous campaigning for the day.

Any self importance gained from the general approving looks from my fellow travelers was soon replaced with anxiety when I noticed the silent seated individual was muttering under his breath whilst glaring at me with a most venomous look. The onlookers seemed interested enough to want to watch a potential fight erupt, but of course not to the extent that they would intervene in said fight.

When he started to reach down to his bag, eyes locked firmly on me, I really started to get worried. The entire carriage was transfixed, waiting to see what this scorned individual was about to produce. At this point I was so convinced he was about to brandish a knife I would have been prepared to get off at the next station and just run like fuck, but sadly the opportunity did not present itself. It was a packed tube, with very little room for maneuver, so I just braced myself for the assault that was surely to follow.

So when he reached down to his shoe rather than his bag, I was rather confused. And when he then started to reach for something on his leg, I was equally perplexed. Had I perhaps slighted a Scotsman, who was about to accost me with his dirk? With the eyes of the entire carriage on him, he started to roll up his trouser leg, and only then did it become all too apparent...

He had a prosthetic leg.


Yup, I asked a one legged man to offer his seat up. I basically forced this guy to reveal his handicap to an entire carriage of people. I think its fair to say that any allies I had won with my self important attempt at chivalry were lost rather rapidly. The subsequent 30 seconds seemed to be the longest of my life, I could only stammer an apology and wait in excruciating cringe ridden silence until my stop.

Just writing this has me curled up in excruciating embarrassment. I can only assume that I will never top this as an embarrassing moment.
(wordsworthless is outnumbered but never outpunned, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 11:40, 9 replies)

When a young
and restless teenager, I would see myself off to sleep every night with an enoyable, relaxing wank. My usual clean-up routine was to utilise that day's boxers to mop up the residue of my sins. The next morning, I'd be first down to the laundry basket, where I'd bury the damn things as deep as possible.

But one morning my mother beat me too it. She was in my room, opening the curtains and picking up my (now very crusty) underwear. I could see the look of disgust on her face as she gingerly held them away from her body.

'Oh Al,' she implored, 'can't you blow your nose with a tissue like any other normal boy?'

I'll never know if she was saving me from embarrassment or herself. But when I think about it... No. I can't think about it anymore.

So I'll just park that memory here and not drag it up again for a long, long time.
( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 11:19, 2 replies)

Shop window
Just thought of another one.

This is from years ago when I was a student up in Manchester.

I used to knock about with a girl named Kim, by knock about I mean stay in alot for a frank and thorough exchange of bodily fluids in a friendly no-ties fuck buddy kinda way.

I had a camera; this was back in the early ninetees so it was an old fashioned camera that used film. One rainy Sunday afternoon we spent the day doing the dirty (and my God, it was dirty), and taking photos.

Next day Im thinking: 'Hmmm, would like to take a looksee at these here photos, I would.'

So I marched down to the Jessops photo developing shop they had in the Arndale Centre and asked to get the thirty-six pics of complete and utter filth developed. I was a bit embarressed about the whole thing so after I paid and handed over the film, I slinked off outside to loiter for the hour it took to have the film developed.

After about twenty minutes of pissing about in the Warner Bros shop, I returned to Jessops to find...

... a small but very enthusiastic crowd had gathered... outside... the... window...

I didn't realise that the photo developing machine they had installed was in the shop window. And that as part of the display as the damn thing spewed out the freshly-developed photos they ran along a conveyor belt in the shop window so any passer by could see someone's holiday snaps, wedding, childrens birthday party, or in my case...

It was very very disturbing to have an eighty year old Mancunian woman advise me:

'You're doing it all wrong in the first ones, sonny, but you get your act together for the finale.'

Still makes me shudder...
( SpankyHanky, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 11:01, 8 replies)

Okay, not too much detail....
If you're easily offended, don't read any further.
(Why I put that on b3ta I don't know...)
In the past I've mentioned my first long term relationship, 10 yrs in total, first 8 yrs okay, last couple of years just about avoiding killing each other. (Although knowing the bitch she is I suspect I'd have died first.)
(In our 7th year together we went on our second foreign holiday together, to Ibiza, and bought a second hand video camera for about £300 to record it. (This was about 1994, and the camera was the size of a shoebox.)
(The holiday bit isn't really relevant, just an explanation of why we had the camera.)
Anyway, yes we had played a little bit with the camera, recording our adult fun occassionally (including the time I fell asleep twice whilst lapping at the furry fountain.)
(My excuse, no sleep for 48 hours due to very early morning flight back from holiday.)
But, I'm not telling you this for my own cringe... Oh no, this is Tonys cringe...!!!

A MAJOR REASON WE SPLIT slowly UP:
We'd been together 8 yrs, and apart from a couple of false alarms in the first couple of years there'd never been any indication of impending parenthood, so we went to see the doc.
She (Julie) went to be scanned, prodded and poked, and came home to tell me they said she was fine.
I went to provide a sample and (another story I'll tell another time) got told my little fella's were bone idle lazy gits who didn't like swimming.
This peed her off.
Cutting a long story short, she ended up screwing a bloke she worked with who had a history of fathering kids (and then leaving them) and after 6 months of him not providing anything of use (and apparently being crap in bed) she took up with Tony, married and 2 kids at home.
Whilst all this is going on, I'll getting full details and I'll be honest it was a turn on (and if anything could turn me on for her it was a blessing.)
Anyway, she announces that as my birthday treat I could film them. (I seem to remember that I actually asked for the new Stephen King book, but never mind...)
Comes the day, camera on, and they start off dressed but within about 10 minutes its time to hide the bratwurst.

30 seconds.

He lasted 30 seconds.

She wondered why he's pulled out, I'm pissing myself laughing ("Oh God paof2, he's so good, can do it for ages"), and he is suitably embarrassed and suddenly remembers a school meting he must attend.

He claimed it was the pressure of me being there and the camera, but I didnt care anymore.
We split up very shortly after that.

They did stay together a while longer, then she moved back to her parents 200 miles away so the visits were infrequent (Is that one word or two?) and then she met a woman and became a lesbian for a few years

Oh, and my lazy sperm?
Within a month of leaving Julie I fathered a beautiful pair of twin girls.
That'll be me gloating instead of cringing then.
(paof2 Nude might not be rude, but rude could be nude..., Tue 2 Dec 2008, 10:54, 6 replies)

*parp*
It was a crisp December afternoon 3 years ago, when it happened.

You see, I was away out with my dad and sister, the idea being that if we helped him shop for our mum, we'd be taken for coffee galore.

Well, our mum loves her slippers, and where else do you get slippers but Marks and Spencers?

We've all heard the jokes - skidmarks already in the pants, blah blah.

I'm sad to say that as we were going up the escalator (travelator), my father was unfortunate to let rip. It was a tall escalator, and fairly heaving giving it was Crimbo time.

The index of identification of a good fart is (i'm sure you would all agree) the number of passers-by you can make dry heave.

Dad managed 7.

The smell, oh god, that smell.
*cringe*
*dies a little inside*

PS: We got to the car, and found out that he had in fact sharted. :(
(DeactivateThisDisaster No., Tue 2 Dec 2008, 10:53, 1 reply)

Just now
On the phone to the fire alarm company, to a young man who sounded rather dishy.

He asked me for my full name. So I told him. Then he asked was my surname spelt with one D or two...

...you can see this coming, can't you...

...and before I could stop myself, like some sort of car crash of cringe where time slows down and you can see all the horror unfolding before you, I squeaked "Two! Like my bra size!" at him.

"Oh...er... right."

I hung up very quickly and then had to hide for a bit in the loos.
(happylittletulip helpless and delicious, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 10:45, 13 replies)

At least I was trying to do the right thing
Last winter when I was taking the bus into work on a more regular basis, I'd often be on a packed bus with someone who actually needed to sit down, but, for whatever reason, couldn't find a seat. So, assuming I was nearby, I'd happily give them my seat, and ordinarily, they'd be happier sat down, and I had done my good deed for the week.

Anyway, one day, I was on the bus, thoroughly engaged in my mp3 player and a game of bejewelled on my phone, when I noticed a pregnant woman standing in front of me. So, I dutifully got up, and motioned with my hand that she should sit down. Only she didn't sit down, and when I more vigourously motioned to the seat she began to glare at me. At this point, I thought "fuck it, stay stood up then", and went back to my entertainment.

Only when said woman got off the bus in front of me and I got a good look at her, I realised that yes, she was in fact fat and not pregnant, and I had, in front of the whole bus, emphasised that fact.

The cringing feeling stayed with me for a while, and it has taught me to size up the potential pregnant women a bit more carefully.
(ShiftyBastard won the World Cup on World Soccer Champs 2010!, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 10:42, 4 replies)

cnuted - the first time my ex-wife met my parents
my ex is Turkish and hadn't been in England for long enough to pick up on the majority of slang me and my friends used, one such example is 'cunted' meaning, of course, very drunk.

we used it liberally but I never thought to explain the rudeness if the c word.

so there we were outside a nice pub in London and my parents started to try to embarass me telling the story of the first time I got drunk when the missus pointed out that I was cunted the night before.

my dad almost wet himself but my mother still hasn't got over it!

myself.....god it was painful!

when we got home, I made a list of every politically incorrect/racist/rude word then asked her to memorise them then never speak them!
(Starzy had a headache on, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 10:35, Reply)

Audience Misjudgement
At the bar with some friends, getting drinks. The barmaid says "And there was a wine wasn't there?".

My friend sparks up with whining, along the lines of "Oh well it's been really cold and I hate my job".

And we all chuckle indulgently, as you do.

Of course my idiot brain can't help joining in, so I pipe up with "Actually, it was a white wine, so it's more a case of 'The blacks are getting all the jobs'".

No indulgent chuckle.

In fact, total silence. There may even have been some shuffling of feet. People sitting at the bar stared into their pints.

Oh dear.
(richardm, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 10:18, 4 replies)

Facebook is evil
A friend of mine had been trying to get his way with a young lady friend of his - he'd been at it for months, with no obvious sign of success. Like all good friends, he would regularly text me with the sordid details - or rather lack of - he wasn't very good at getting anywhere.

Finally, through a combination of alcohol, luck and an expensive dinner, he manages to seduce said lady enough to take her back to his flat and perform all manner of suitably wicked deeds. Being particularly smug, he decides that he has to text me to let me know the good news. Being particularly drunk, the message 'I've finally conquered the elusive Miss X, and lo, it was good!' went not to me, but to the Facebook mobile status update service. She didn't see it as a compliment...
(Mattle, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 10:16, Reply)

Ooh, just thought of one.
Some of you know I'm an IT trainer in our wonderful NHS.

One of the things I had to do at my last employer was show nurses how to discharge patients. This isn't very exciting, there's no ejaculation, pus or bullets involved... you just have to click on the patient and fill in the details of when they went home, were they better, etc.

One of the things that must be filled in is where they went after hospital. There were many options, such as "Usual place of residence" (ie: home).

My usual patter at this point ran along the lines of "Click here, and choose the correct destination for the patient. If they're going home choose usual place of residence, but if needs be you can use other nhs hospital, or if the patient's a prisoner you can choose court, or penal establishment..."

You can see where this is going, can't you?

It just had to be the day that only one nurse turned up for the lesson, and she just had to be quite young and pretty didn't she?

And I tripped over my words and said "...or if your patient's a prisoner you can choose penis... er, penal establishment..."


/length? I think you'll find I shortened it quite a bit there...
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 10:09, 3 replies)

Why oh why oh why oh why.
There was a guy I knew for quite a few years. We had met at polytechnic and we all hung around together in a group although he was more on the periphery. So years pass and we're all buddies and for some strange reason that I cannot figure out to this day, I get it into my head that he's interested in me and knowing he's quite shy realises he hasn't said anything due to this shyness.

So what do I do, I write a letter to him declaring my interest and basically saying we should hook up. It's only after posting this letter that my strange hallucinations regarding this chap lift and I realise what a numpty I am. There's no way he would be interested in me that way as I'm soooooooo not his type and quite frankly he's not mine.

The strange thing is that he turns up at my house with mutual friends and says absolutely nothing about the letter and converses with me as normal with no reticence or awkwardness and I follow his lead and say nothing also.

So I'm thinking, did he get the letter in the first place or is he just blanking the whole episode. I start to plan my answer should the letter be brought up and decide to deny all knowledge of it and state that it must be a prank. This is quite silly as no-ne we know would play such a prank in the first place. We're all in our mid to late twenties I might add and not teenagers.

So anyway eventually time passes and the letter is never mentioned and the chap and I lose touch but even 15 years later thinking about this I still cringe with embarrasement at that letter. Thankfully I now can't remember what I wrote but I know it was really soppy. *cringe*
( girlinthehole, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 9:59, 2 replies)

Oh dear god
I can remember that my parents have embarrassed me to death on a billion occasions but damned if I could think of an example. Until just now.

My dad was a teacher and worked with young people, from 15 to 25 years. Somehow, he caught worms from one of his students.

So mum, dad and I all take a worming tablet, yay combantrin, no more worms. I don't think of it again.

Until the next day. Like many 16 year olds I had a high school sweetheart. He came over my house for video games or what ever teenagers did in the late nineties.

My mum, with all the tact and sublety of a brick, pops out brandishing worming tablets saying 'You're here everyday you have to take this right now!!!!'

My mum De-Wormed my boyfriend. Mortified.
(spent.fish flipping and gasping, Tue 2 Dec 2008, 9:13, 2 replies)