Dirty laundry in public.
I currently live in a student house, with five males. Obviously when not having fluked ourselves some sex, we often talk about it, dream about it and hatch cunning plans on how to obtain it.

Much to the annoyance of one of the boys, twenty two year old Joe, who amongst being a hippy, a paranoid stoner and an absolute miserable git, is still a virgin.

Coming up towards christmas 2005, Our Joe began to pester us housemates about when we were leaving, when we'd be returning etc. It left a hint of curiosity in our minds, but thinking of no logical reason as to why he would care, as we rarely socially interact with the whiney bugger, we ignored it and all made our plans to leave.

The day before i was due to get the train, i needed to check my tickets on line. The only housemate with an internet connection still remaining in the house, i was forced to ask Joe if i could quickly use his computer. He mumbled something, no doubt about his angst at his absolute failings with the fairer sex and left me to it. Leaving his e-mail account open.
Ever the crafty cad and with a nose for trouble i helped myself to a quick peek.

Where i found e-mails to a high class hooker in the local area. Arranging two 'sex therapy' sessions. To help him overcome his anxieties and erectile dysfunction problems. Dated for the next evening, when he would have the house to himself.

Oh how i laughed at his miserable life, and how this hooker, who specialised in servicing business men and sugar daddies would smirk at his tiny little hippy den (including bizarrely, having a pair of sandals nailed to the wall.) Oh how he'd rue paying 600 pounds (from a student budget no less!) to prematurely jizz all over her thighs and then somehow contort around her in the tiny single bed to apologize for the rest of the session.

Only, why would Joe use his shabby little pot den, when my master bedroom with its double bed and fine decor would be vacant.

Thats right. At this point i realised the point of his nagging. He was going to shag that rotten crotch in my bed, on my sheets. And i was too embarrassed to tell him i knew of his plans. OH NOES! I go home and cry into my christmas pudding, knowing that my duvet and duck feather pillows would probably have aids or the like when i returned

/he didn't shag her though. Later email snoopage confirms that he couldn't get it up. Both he and I apologise for length.
(I'm a schmuck, i did a schmucky thing. is unlurking thanks to unemployment, Fri 10 Feb 2006, 18:26, Reply)