Weasel Spoor
"The Man"
Registered: Jun 2002
Location: All over the place
Posts: 2803 |
Weasel Anecdotes - Sex And The Pity
I dunno about how easy you folks popped your respective cherries (Brit translation: lost your virginities), but for me it was studded with almost supernaturally bad luck and ill judgement. I feel like I know you all well enough that you will take my tale on board with the good natured feelings of support and goodwill that this forum is justly famed. Suffice to say, I felt like a modern day Job tried by the Lord after this lot: -
OK- background- so I left my public school at 17 chock full of A grades in the field of Academia but an 'F' in the field of getting my end away. Fleeing from the site of my sexual inadequacy (Edinburgh) to the throbbing dynamic metropolis (London) felt like a good start. Yes, whilst I told all and sundry that I was moving to the big city for the furtherance of my education in reality I was getting down there for the biggest range of targets (cripples, metally ill etc etc) for my nascent sex drive to finally be sated on to be in my scope.
After the hairy experience of my first cab ride across London, I nervously entered my student hall of residence - shown to my room by a non-descript member of staff, I unpacked my things, stacked the books on my bookshelf, read all the little notes secreted in my lugguage by my wailing mother "my son, my son what will I do without here wail, moan etc etc" and wondered what to do next.
Just when I was considering refolding all my underwear in my dresser for the fourth time to pass the hours before 'freshers orientation evening" - ye god - a knock at the door.
It opened to reveal a face which spake of scallyness and shifty behaviour - a face which was a network of scars, a Marlboro dangled out of one corner of a mouth framed by a week of stubble. The apparition swayed slightly on it's hush puppied feet.
"Hello?" I squeaked.
"hrmmm, hello mate" said the apparition (who turned out to be called Iain). Pulling a crumpled piece of paper out of his stained jeans, he squinted at it "You're Ed right?" I nodded. "Good," he grimaced, "I am your senior student, and you are in my pastoral care for as long as you can stand it - do you fancy a drink?"
Despite Ian looking like he would rather be milking rabid cats than hanging out with pimpled herberts who didn't know dot about real life, he turned out to be rather good company as we hang out in his squalid room, directly below mine.
After our first drink and an exchange of who we were (me: 17 year old, squeaking virgin, him 30 year old former smack addict and scallywag) he leaned over with a conspiratorial leer.
"ere mate, have a couple of these, it'll ease you into university like".
I looked down at the four paper squares in his grubby palm. The only experience I had of drugs at this point was when I had become hooked on cherry cough mixture when I was eight. I recalled when one idiot at our school had shown off about 'dropping acid' and when challenged he was humilated enough to stick a blob of sulphuric acid on his tongue in chensitry class (to this day that idiot has a circualr white scar on his tongue - and he also works for the government. Be afraid).
Anyhow - this looked like the real deal. I nervously popped two on my tongue. The next 5 hours passed rather pleasantly with more beer, and 'Sonic The Hedgehog' on Ian's knackered Sega system (the sound effects and graphics were particularly intense). In this fashion we singularly failed to make the freshers meeting, but we really didn't care.
"Let's go to the bar" Ian giggled, looking slightly boz eyed.
The hall of residence had a tiny bar to serve it's 2000 odd students, and it was rammed with a seething mass of teenage hormones and the buzz of initial territorial markings. Ian disappeared off to hang with cronies, and I started trying to make friends. This was slightly difficult owing to the strange visions dancing at the corner of my vision - every time a metallic sound chimed (eg keys jangling, glasses clinking) a shower of golden rings would erupt at the corner of my vision. People took on a blue and spiky aspect. But, I got over that, and before long, much to my intense surprise a rather pretty well spoken lady and I had lapsed into a conversation. Even more surprising was the lip mashing that followed and the indication that she wanted me to come back to her room.
As the bar closed and I walked hand in hand towards what would surely be a moment of nirvana, my mind exulted on a psycadelic cloud of fluffyness. Not more than 24 hours into my escape from conservative stuffy old Edinburgh and the over protective suffocating embrace of Ma and Pa to the exciting new dawn of my young adulthood in London, and here I was HIGH ON HARD DRUGS and ABOUT TO GET MY LONG AWAITED FIRST SHAG. Wonderful.
We got into her room, and we got pretty steamy pretty quickly. The lights went out, my cock got hard, she threw me down on the bed, straddled me with her lithe thighs and slipped over my manhood and started to fuck my brains out. Lying on that bed in her dark room, my brain raced.
Looking over her shoulder, the shadows played fitfully on the wall as she moaned and panted...
And the shadows suddenly coalecsed and burst forth from the wall as a 10 foot wide satanic effigy of Sonic The Hedgehog with fangs came screaming at me like all the winds of Hades were behind him.
Needless to say my youthful tumesence collapsed like The Tower Of Babel in about half a second, I screamed fell off the bed and curled up in the foetal position on the floor.
My beloved, not unreasonably (espceically as she had no idea what I was flying on) asked "What the fuck is the matter with you?"
My only reply was to mutter "hedgehogs, hedgehogs" as millions of the buggers danced behind my tightly closed eyelids.
My 'conquest' was at first flabberghasted, and then monumentally upset, and fled what was her room to beg next door to take her in to save her from the psycho who had become embroiled in some kind of psychotic episode in her boudoir.
Needless to say my reputation amongst the tight knit female community at hall was scuppered for the first term at least, not one of them would come near me with a bargepole.
Thankfully though my part time job in the spring holiday from university was to offer me another chance with a girl who was untatined by my London reputation for spontaneous manisfestation of hedgehogs.
I was working in a remote boatyard on the West coast of Scotland about 20 miles from the town of Oban. Conditions were spartan, we lived in tents, went to the toilet in a dark and grubby portakabin, and our morning wash was in the loch (bloody cold it was too). We were hauling fishing boats or pleasure yachts onto pilings out of the water and blasting the barnacles off the hull with a pressure hose before repainting the underside with chemical 'anti fouling' paint. This cobalt blue goop was applied carefully with gloves and a face mask - designed to cling onto the underside of boats, it wasn't your average household emulsion.
After two weeks of this backbreaking, and cold work, us part timers were treated with an evening out in Oban before we all went our separate ways. A white mini bus full of lads piled into town and we all invaded a traditional Scottish boozer en masse. After a couple of stiff drinks, it came to pass that one of the other workers had a sister who was at school at the West Highland Academy for Girls. This august institution was a boarding school for 500 young women between 14 and 18, where they could be educated in isiolation from the evil temptation of men. Needless to say when they got let out of an evening, they tended to go off like an oestrogen fuelled bomb.
It was therefore rather gratifying to find my co-workers sister come into the boozer with 10 of her 17 year old mates. Naturally we all introduced ourselves asap, and before long we were making merry round a huge circular table. My immediate neighbour was a glorious blonde with taught bosoms and an endearing tendency to stroke my inner thigh.
Once again, my cherry feared for it's life, as my companion made it clear she would like us to go outside. To the accompanying whistles and applause from my boisterous mates, we went outside. Under a beautiful west highland sky, we kissed passionately, and before long my lady's hands went questing in my trousers. Pushing me gently against a pine tree in the pub car park, with a devilish smile on her lips, she loosened my jeans and knelt before me. I looked at the stars as she cupped my old chap in her hands...
... and my reverie was interrupted by a half shriek from my waist level.
"My God - your dick is blue" she complained loudly.
Sure enough, us running out of gloves on the last day (you could not take them off without turning them inside out and disposing of them) coupled with the yards primitive bathroon facilities had ensured my member had been pretty effectively coated by blue anti foul paint.
Shit.
The girl scuttled back inside, and I followed shortly afterwards, an interval of time enough for her tell of my peculiar penile decoration - the pub turned to greet my entrance with a mixture of sniggers, incredulity and a palpable air of 'you ain't from round here are you boy"
This second episiode has a further humilaiting epilogue, to whit my parents coming home to find their first born with his dick in a bowl of turpentine. Took a lot of convincing that their son hadn't been transformed into a crazed pervert by four months in London.
The third attempt for me to kick the cherry (now the size of the third moon of Jupiter) into touch finally came once again at hall of residence with the hedgehog episode now not reason enough for the more desperate members of the hall of residence's female community to turn me down, I ended up romping with a 'robust' hockey player.
All was going fine, and my various groans and panting were letting her know that I was getting towards the 'ticklish' bit. The lady had clearly been reading up on her back issues of 'Cosmopolitan' and decided to give my orgasm a real kick by questing for my prostate gland.
Life never being simple for a weasel on the make, I have on rare occaisons suffered from hammeroids (or 'piles' as us Brits refer to them as colloquially). So therefore when my shag partner found the first convicing lump in my arse and gave it a rather robust squeeze, instead of the throes of ecstasy, I leapt off her with my best scalded cat impression, with a distended blue lump hanging out my arse.
My lover's reaction of 'wow, was that good for you' hardly helped my mood.
I gave up after that - but you will all be glad to hear, nearly 3 years later I finally lost my cherry (to a 17 year old who is still my some count is still the filthiest girl I have ever been with) and have made up for lost time considerably 
But jeepers, anyone else have a run of luck like that? Was someone trying to tell me something or what?
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07-03-2004 08:38 PM
