SOME GUYS JUST AREN'T CUT OUT FOR A 9 TO 5…
Since separating from my ex-wife, I’ve only really ‘dated’ one girl. Really? But you seem like such a catch Sean. I know, right?
Okay, so I get that a large part of this is self-inflicted but at the same time; there were girls whom I would’ve loved to have seen again but for whatever reason (mainly because the feeling wasn’t mutual), things didn’t work out. Caroline was the exception.
Remember how I’d previously mentioned that Northern Monkey had teed me up with that line from ‘How I met your Mother’?
Oh no that’s right; you’d only know that if you read my book. Oh well. I guess you’re just going to have to buy a copy then aren’t you? *
Forget the wink. Look at the little tongue poke!
Well it was with her. And such was his commitment to my cause that night that he even came back to her place to ensure that her friend – who was from out-of-town and staying with her – wouldn’t throw a spanner in the works.
And by that I don’t mean that he hooked up with her. He simply kept talking to her whilst Caroline and I were making out in the corner until she eventually passed out on the bed.
I didn’t actually sleep with her that night. I wanted to of course but she was having none of it. Partly because she wasn’t that sort of girl but partly because her friend had relegated us to the living room couch. And I’m sure ‘that’ would’ve violated acceptable hygiene rules when you’re living with six other women. Six other men; I’m not so sure?
So the next morning when she asked if I was actually going to call her, I responded ‘yes’. Not just to get into her pants – though this did happen the next time we met – but also as there was just something about her.
Unfortunately the timing wasn’t great. And due to a month-long holiday that she’d planned before we met and a return up north for Christmas, I only saw her twice in the two months that followed. But we stayed in touch the whole time and not only was I really excited to see her again in January, I was even beginning to think:
Maybe this could go somewhere?
I forget now who we’d played but Arsenal had won the early KO game that Saturday and my instructions were to pick up two bottles of wine before heading to hers that afternoon. Luckily there’s a Tesco Express opposite Gloucester Road tube station. There’s also a KFC.
So after confirming my wine selection with her, I popped in for an amuse-bouche (a Fillet Tower box meal) before the main course. Of SEX.
Now in addition to being fairer than most Tamils, not having hair like a LEGO character and not being able to speak our language; the other telltale sign that I may in fact be the milkman’s son, is that I have a very low tolerance for spicy food. And although I knew it could lead to trouble later on, the Asian in me just couldn’t let the hot wings go to waste.
Caroline’s place was only 5 minutes away from the station and I was conscious that she might be wondering where I was. But after the beers at the football, I couldn’t take any chances and nipped downstairs to take a leak.
Noticing there was no one else in the gents I decided that was also an opportune moment to relieve some wind as I was feeling a little bloated after my feast.
It seems that the Colonel might have been lying all these years and may also have hailed from South Asia. That or my stomach was way more sensitive than I’d realised, as within seconds I’d managed to shit myself.
Thankfully I hadn’t put my back into it. But I’d lifted my right leg off the floor ever so slightly for comfort, meaning some debris had reached some places it really shouldn’t have.
I clasped my butt-cheeks together as tightly as possible once I’d realised what had happened and contemplated my next move. I needed to get to the cubicle post-haste but was also very conscious of doing further damage. So much like the way Spiderman moves along an apartment windowsill when he’s searching for the bad guys, I carefully side-stepped my way to freedom.
There was no time to dither and I simply went for it Shit Break style; complete with shudders, squeals and the occasional knee jerks.
I don’t care what you say. The original Pie is still a classic.
Thirty minutes, five flushes and numerous tears later, the evacuation was complete. Don’t quote me on this but the radius of the toilet roll was about 10cms when I got there and around 7.5cms when I was done. But as if what I’d gone through wasn’t bad enough, I still had to clean myself up and make it to Caroline’s, who by then had rung me three times.
I’m not sure how many of you have been in similar situations as an adult but trying to manoeuvre your way out of shit soaked underwear is no easy task. As not only does one need to avoid contact between turd and skin but also between turded clothes and non-turded clothes.
Slipping my trainers off was easy enough. My jeans on the other hand were a lot trickier; especially as they were bunched up around my ankles with my boxers. Yet somehow I managed it without any visible transfer.
I couldn’t handle the thought of my bare feet potentially coming into contact with anything so kept my socks on as I lifted my feet up and carefully slid my boxers off, flicking them as far away as possible from me with my right foot (which in reality was only about 50cm). I don’t know if the person on cleaning duty that day will ever read this story but all I can say is:
Sir / Ma’am, I truly am so sorry for what I put you through and if you can prove to me that you were that person, I’d like to take you out for dinner. Though not at KFC.
Even though I’d successfully ‘disposed’ of my boxers I was still very concerned that there might actually be shit on me and though incredibly risky, I took the decision to exit the cubicle and ‘wash myself’ at one of the sinks. And by that I mean, throw handfuls of water onto my thighs and butt-cheeks and run back inside to dry myself off with the remaining 7.5cms.
Sorry, but I’d like you to take some time to picture just how awful this situation was. I mean there I was; a grown man, sneaking around a KFC toilet in only a jumper and socks, throwing water on his nether regions.
All I can say is, thank god a kid didn’t walk in as there’s a strong chance you wouldn’t even be reading this story on account of my being in fucking jail! But I figured I’d made Caroline wait that long. The least I could do was turn up not looking like shit. Literally.
So after the most nerve-racking minute of my life and a couple more flushes, I was finally ‘ready’ for my date.
I called Caroline straight away to explain the delay, siting a very important call from a family member. In an ideal world I would’ve told her the truth and the first thing I’d have done when I got to her place would be to take a shower and burn my clothes. But clearly this wasn’t appropriate behaviour for a fourth date (third really, if you think about it).
So when it eventually got to the part where we’d be doing the Wild Thing, my hope was that it’d be with the lights off and my clothing preferably buried somewhere on the other side of the room.
But you know what they say about the best laid plans.
I don’t know if it was just because we hadn’t seen one another in over three weeks but we completely skipped the pleasantries and started going at it on the staircase up to her room.
Me: “Erm, shouldn’t we probably go to your room?”
Caroline: “It’s ok, my flat mates are all out.” And with that she pushed me up against a wall in the landing before ordering me to take my jumper off.
Now on the previous occasions we’d been together the sex was good but it was fairly vanilla. And getting head wasn’t even remotely on the cards. So when her mouth started moving downhill, so too did my earlier plans. Fuck it. You’re about to get your dick sucked.
I still recall her surprise upon noticing that I wasn’t wearing any underwear and I dismissed it with a truly awful line that I just can’t bear repeating. However it seemed to do the trick as she quickly returned to unfastening my buttons and pulling my jeans down. All that was left for me to do was, well… nothing really.
I was just like Clinton all those years ago with Lewinsky, except there seemed to be a distinct lack of sucking. And when I peered down to investigate, Caroline was actually underneath my cock, seemingly fascinated by something on the floor.
Although I had a fair idea of how this might end, I played dumb and asked her if everything was ok? To which she responded “oh god, I think I’m going to be sick”, before running down the stairs to the bathroom.
With her head no longer obstructing my view, I leant forward for a better look and running down the back of my right, WHITE sock was a solid streak of turd… I was wrong.
This relationship wasn’t going anywhere.
If you liked this then I suspect you might also enjoy my book. Or not.
Either way, thanks for reading; particularly to those of you who share these stories and/or leave comments.