Profile for Tip-Top Tomcat:
Fssssh, 16 years of age, from Liverpool, when I'm not robbing cars or taking the Ferry across the Mersey, I enjoy hot drinks accompanied by a film- foreign if I'm feeling pretentious, James Bond/Clint Eastwood if I'm feeling manly.
Go gentle with me, I am so very frail.
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- a member for 16 years, 6 months and 1 day
- has posted 27 messages on the main board
- has posted 1 messages on the talk board
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- has posted 18 stories and 31 replies on question of the week
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Fssssh, 16 years of age, from Liverpool, when I'm not robbing cars or taking the Ferry across the Mersey, I enjoy hot drinks accompanied by a film- foreign if I'm feeling pretentious, James Bond/Clint Eastwood if I'm feeling manly.
Go gentle with me, I am so very frail.
Recent front page messages:
none
Best answers to questions:
» Voyeurism
Not strictly sex related...
but it seemed intimate and private.
In a car travelling through the city centre one morning when the car stops at a set of lights (as cars often do)at a junction.I espied, on a nearby pavement, a man trying to cross the road, the road intersecting the one I was on, a road on which the little green man had not yet beckoned our pedestrian to the paralell paving.
The man runs out into the road, a skinny young thing (the man,that is, not the road) dressed in what were evidently his work clothes-nice suit, briefcase etc.He runs out in a desperate attempt to reach the otherside and gets half way before he decides to run back.
Indulging in a little bit of schaudenfreude [sic]I let out a chuckle and continue to watch, in the hope that I will witness another of this poor souls woeful road-crossings.
A second later and my wish is fulfilled, except this time our hero takes two steps into the road before a honking horn indicates that it isn't such a great idea.
A giggle escapes my lips as this man, now a little infuriated stands on the pavement, waiting for a more oppurtune moment. He pulls out a cigarette and goes to light it BUT WAIT!!! A perfect chance to cross the road presents itself, and the poor fool has wasted valuable seconds lighting a cigarette. He rushes out but barely reaches the end of the pavement before sense conquers the passion of the moment- he's too late, there are cars on the way.
Now audibly cursing ("arsecock" were his exact words), he takes a long pull on is cigarette while I, in the safety of a vehicle begin to laugh heartily at this "cream-faced loon" (to quote Macbeth)
Two more failed attempts and I realy am laughing at this pitiable sight, his angry curses getting louder and less inventive ("CUNT")
Until, finally, just as the lights will surely change and I will have to move away from this entertainment, there is the perfect openng. All traffic is gone, as a final Ford Focus zooms off into the distance. He can't possibly fail to cross.
I don't know whether it was because of the excitement or because the guy was Joseph Stalin in a past life but what happened next was a truly incredible sight to behold.
The fucker only went and dropped his briefcase.
The briefcase only went and burst open.
Paper only blew out fucking everywhere.
I let out an unholy bark of hysterical laughter as our protaginist bellows his entire vocabulary of naughty rudey swear words into the heavens, kicks the briefcase as hard as he can and then falls to his knees, sobbing without tears, while paper gently dances around him in the wind.
Now if that isn't witnessing something intimate and private I don't know what is.
(Tue 16th Oct 2007, 20:36, More)
Not strictly sex related...
but it seemed intimate and private.
In a car travelling through the city centre one morning when the car stops at a set of lights (as cars often do)at a junction.I espied, on a nearby pavement, a man trying to cross the road, the road intersecting the one I was on, a road on which the little green man had not yet beckoned our pedestrian to the paralell paving.
The man runs out into the road, a skinny young thing (the man,that is, not the road) dressed in what were evidently his work clothes-nice suit, briefcase etc.He runs out in a desperate attempt to reach the otherside and gets half way before he decides to run back.
Indulging in a little bit of schaudenfreude [sic]I let out a chuckle and continue to watch, in the hope that I will witness another of this poor souls woeful road-crossings.
A second later and my wish is fulfilled, except this time our hero takes two steps into the road before a honking horn indicates that it isn't such a great idea.
A giggle escapes my lips as this man, now a little infuriated stands on the pavement, waiting for a more oppurtune moment. He pulls out a cigarette and goes to light it BUT WAIT!!! A perfect chance to cross the road presents itself, and the poor fool has wasted valuable seconds lighting a cigarette. He rushes out but barely reaches the end of the pavement before sense conquers the passion of the moment- he's too late, there are cars on the way.
Now audibly cursing ("arsecock" were his exact words), he takes a long pull on is cigarette while I, in the safety of a vehicle begin to laugh heartily at this "cream-faced loon" (to quote Macbeth)
Two more failed attempts and I realy am laughing at this pitiable sight, his angry curses getting louder and less inventive ("CUNT")
Until, finally, just as the lights will surely change and I will have to move away from this entertainment, there is the perfect openng. All traffic is gone, as a final Ford Focus zooms off into the distance. He can't possibly fail to cross.
I don't know whether it was because of the excitement or because the guy was Joseph Stalin in a past life but what happened next was a truly incredible sight to behold.
The fucker only went and dropped his briefcase.
The briefcase only went and burst open.
Paper only blew out fucking everywhere.
I let out an unholy bark of hysterical laughter as our protaginist bellows his entire vocabulary of naughty rudey swear words into the heavens, kicks the briefcase as hard as he can and then falls to his knees, sobbing without tears, while paper gently dances around him in the wind.
Now if that isn't witnessing something intimate and private I don't know what is.
(Tue 16th Oct 2007, 20:36, More)
» Stalked
Cheeky Scouser James.
Cheeky Scouser James attends the same school as me. He sits next to me but one in maths and in front of me in physics. Cheeky Scouser James, if you're reading this, I'm sorry. I may seem like your average, run-of-the-mill schoolfriend, I am not. I'm the phantom texter you threatened with police action.
I don't know where it came from, or why I did it. It just washed over me. This urge, this unstoppable desire to send you a scary text, and I swear at first I only intended it to be the one. I got your number from Bad Drunk Lisa, and sent you it. It was fairly innocent, that first text, odd, but not particularly meaningful.
"Would you still love me if I was in a wheelchair?" it asked.
"Who is this?" you replied, almost instantly.
I didn't answer.
Only Bad Drunk Lisa, Handsome Devil Wilson and myself were in on it, and we all found it so funny that we thought I should text you every day.
Text number two was less scay and more daft than the first, though I can see why two of these odd texts in as many days might have started to worry you.
"I saw a dolphin today, and thought of you."
Your reply was predictable.
"I think you have the wrong number." I didn't.
And so I became pavlovian in my texting, every day I would come home from school, make myself a coffee, grab the phone and text away.
I wish I'd saved all of our correspondance, so I could apologise for every one of my poetic messages.
The sexual ones ("My fallopian tubes ache with the memories of your juices") were a burden on my sexuality, and I'm sorry for lying. I don't have any fallopian tubes.
As your replies got more and more hostile, our correspondance began to way heavier and heavier upon my conscience, but before guilt could put an end to my morally shaky (and possibly felonious) ways, my lack of credit did.
Yes, Cheeky Scouser James, I felt bad when you announced that you were suicidal and started punching the fridge at that party on saturday, but I'm toping my phone up tommorow, and I just don't know what to do...
(Thu 31st Jan 2008, 20:57, More)
Cheeky Scouser James.
Cheeky Scouser James attends the same school as me. He sits next to me but one in maths and in front of me in physics. Cheeky Scouser James, if you're reading this, I'm sorry. I may seem like your average, run-of-the-mill schoolfriend, I am not. I'm the phantom texter you threatened with police action.
I don't know where it came from, or why I did it. It just washed over me. This urge, this unstoppable desire to send you a scary text, and I swear at first I only intended it to be the one. I got your number from Bad Drunk Lisa, and sent you it. It was fairly innocent, that first text, odd, but not particularly meaningful.
"Would you still love me if I was in a wheelchair?" it asked.
"Who is this?" you replied, almost instantly.
I didn't answer.
Only Bad Drunk Lisa, Handsome Devil Wilson and myself were in on it, and we all found it so funny that we thought I should text you every day.
Text number two was less scay and more daft than the first, though I can see why two of these odd texts in as many days might have started to worry you.
"I saw a dolphin today, and thought of you."
Your reply was predictable.
"I think you have the wrong number." I didn't.
And so I became pavlovian in my texting, every day I would come home from school, make myself a coffee, grab the phone and text away.
I wish I'd saved all of our correspondance, so I could apologise for every one of my poetic messages.
The sexual ones ("My fallopian tubes ache with the memories of your juices") were a burden on my sexuality, and I'm sorry for lying. I don't have any fallopian tubes.
As your replies got more and more hostile, our correspondance began to way heavier and heavier upon my conscience, but before guilt could put an end to my morally shaky (and possibly felonious) ways, my lack of credit did.
Yes, Cheeky Scouser James, I felt bad when you announced that you were suicidal and started punching the fridge at that party on saturday, but I'm toping my phone up tommorow, and I just don't know what to do...
(Thu 31st Jan 2008, 20:57, More)
» Accidental innuendo
The other day
I was doing some gardening and I ended up
running over the debris from the recent re-carpetting of the living room, which had been put on the lawn. Because of the heat generated from the friction with said debris,
the blades had become very soft and flexible.
"Ah drat!" I cried
"What is it dear?" asked Wife
"Chopper's gone limp" I replied.
"Oh no!" She said "What happened?"
"Well I got it out but just ended up eating carpet!"
Well, off I popped to the DIY store to buy a new one.
"Hello!" chirped the sales assistant.
"Hello.... Connie" said I, spotting her name badge.
"That's Miss Lingus to you sir!" she said reproachfully.
"Terrible sorry. Could you direct me to the lawnmowers?"
Well, on the way to the lawnmowers I accidentally knocked into this burly chap. I apologised immediately of course.
"That's Dave," explained Miss Lingus "he's a member of our store rugby team."
"Hmm. A good strong member I daresay!"
We continued until arriving at the lawnmower aisle. It was here I noticed some shears.
"Ooh, these would be perfect!" I exclaimed.
"For what?" asked a, frankly belligerent, Connie.
"Why my wifes unruly bush of course! Just the other day I noticed a pair of pine martens making a nest in there!"
Having acquired a lawnmower, I became curious as to what other items I could purchase, so asked Connie to lead me to the bicycles.
There was arranged a beautiful shelf of bicycling paraphernalia, and I saw just the item I wanted. I reached out and picked it up.
"I'll buy this!" I said
"Should I polish it for you sir?" asked Connie
"Polish what?"
"Your bell of course sir! I'd very much like to polish your big purple bell!"
The colourful bicycle bell I'd picked up was indeed a bit grubby, and could perhaps do with a nice clean.
"Ooh yes please!" I shouted. "I only need a new one because a religious figurehead robbed my last one!"
"Indeed sir?"
"Ooh yes I punished him accordingly of course."
"How so sir?"
"Well I flogged the bishop you fool!" I yelled, cursing the child's ignorance."
I got to the checkout with my items and was very pleased with how the shop had gone.
"What brand of lawnmower is it, sir?" asked the knave at the counter.
"Erm, let me just put my glasses on," I said. "Ah here we are. It is a 'Tightly Puckered Anus 3000"
"Very good, sir."
(Fri 13th Jun 2008, 23:41, More)
The other day
I was doing some gardening and I ended up
running over the debris from the recent re-carpetting of the living room, which had been put on the lawn. Because of the heat generated from the friction with said debris,
the blades had become very soft and flexible.
"Ah drat!" I cried
"What is it dear?" asked Wife
"Chopper's gone limp" I replied.
"Oh no!" She said "What happened?"
"Well I got it out but just ended up eating carpet!"
Well, off I popped to the DIY store to buy a new one.
"Hello!" chirped the sales assistant.
"Hello.... Connie" said I, spotting her name badge.
"That's Miss Lingus to you sir!" she said reproachfully.
"Terrible sorry. Could you direct me to the lawnmowers?"
Well, on the way to the lawnmowers I accidentally knocked into this burly chap. I apologised immediately of course.
"That's Dave," explained Miss Lingus "he's a member of our store rugby team."
"Hmm. A good strong member I daresay!"
We continued until arriving at the lawnmower aisle. It was here I noticed some shears.
"Ooh, these would be perfect!" I exclaimed.
"For what?" asked a, frankly belligerent, Connie.
"Why my wifes unruly bush of course! Just the other day I noticed a pair of pine martens making a nest in there!"
Having acquired a lawnmower, I became curious as to what other items I could purchase, so asked Connie to lead me to the bicycles.
There was arranged a beautiful shelf of bicycling paraphernalia, and I saw just the item I wanted. I reached out and picked it up.
"I'll buy this!" I said
"Should I polish it for you sir?" asked Connie
"Polish what?"
"Your bell of course sir! I'd very much like to polish your big purple bell!"
The colourful bicycle bell I'd picked up was indeed a bit grubby, and could perhaps do with a nice clean.
"Ooh yes please!" I shouted. "I only need a new one because a religious figurehead robbed my last one!"
"Indeed sir?"
"Ooh yes I punished him accordingly of course."
"How so sir?"
"Well I flogged the bishop you fool!" I yelled, cursing the child's ignorance."
I got to the checkout with my items and was very pleased with how the shop had gone.
"What brand of lawnmower is it, sir?" asked the knave at the counter.
"Erm, let me just put my glasses on," I said. "Ah here we are. It is a 'Tightly Puckered Anus 3000"
"Very good, sir."
(Fri 13th Jun 2008, 23:41, More)
» My most gullible moment
Withering Spoons and Posting Bags
#1 Legally Blonde is on telly. Cup of tea in one hand, biscuit in other. Mother sits across from me.
Me: God this film's shit. All I can say is I'm glad she's dead.
Mum: What?!
Me: Yeah! Where the hell have you been? She got stabbed didn't she!
Mum: Who? Her?!
Me: Yes her! Reese whats-her-name.
Mum: Witherspoon?
Me: No, with a knife!
#2
The joke was on me though as a few days later when my Dads doing the crossword and I'm pouring myself some milk, he shouts through:
"7 across- Postman's Bag"
I frown for an instant. "How many letters?"
"FUCKING LOADS OF THEM! HAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!"
Touche father. Touche.
(Wed 27th Aug 2008, 22:15, More)
Withering Spoons and Posting Bags
#1 Legally Blonde is on telly. Cup of tea in one hand, biscuit in other. Mother sits across from me.
Me: God this film's shit. All I can say is I'm glad she's dead.
Mum: What?!
Me: Yeah! Where the hell have you been? She got stabbed didn't she!
Mum: Who? Her?!
Me: Yes her! Reese whats-her-name.
Mum: Witherspoon?
Me: No, with a knife!
#2
The joke was on me though as a few days later when my Dads doing the crossword and I'm pouring myself some milk, he shouts through:
"7 across- Postman's Bag"
I frown for an instant. "How many letters?"
"FUCKING LOADS OF THEM! HAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!"
Touche father. Touche.
(Wed 27th Aug 2008, 22:15, More)
» Desperate Times
In lieu of a vagina...
I occassionally simulate sex with my right hand.
I know, I know joke answers are annoying but I'm tired of having no stories to tell.
EDIT: Just realised that if I had a brain I would've mentioned how posting a joke answer was a desperate measure. Fuck.
(Fri 16th Nov 2007, 21:55, More)
In lieu of a vagina...
I occassionally simulate sex with my right hand.
I know, I know joke answers are annoying but I'm tired of having no stories to tell.
EDIT: Just realised that if I had a brain I would've mentioned how posting a joke answer was a desperate measure. Fuck.
(Fri 16th Nov 2007, 21:55, More)