» Food sex

Twix of Doom
My first girlfriend and I were together for about two and a half years. A few weeks before we split up we went on a short break to Cartmel in the Lake District, renting a cottage from my auntie’s boss. We had a nice time there, wandering around the priory, eating toasted teacakes and crumpets in a small tea shop, but a more deviant event was on the horizon.

“Would you eat something out of me?” she asked one evening.

I confess I was rather bewildered and wondered what she could mean: A banana? Some chocolate? A pie? I suggested these things and she decided that a Twix would be a good idea.

The next morning we walked to the local Spar shop and, being a chivalrous type, I allowed her to choose her Twix. As the chocolate was slightly soft I suggested that we should maybe put it into the freezer for a while so that it wouldn’t melt in a flash (amongst other things) and she agreed.

“I’m ready,” she said late that evening. She went upstairs before me while I retrieved the Twix from the freezer, following in her footsteps moments later. When I reached the bedroom she had already undressed and was lying on the bed, her legs apart. For a moment I wondered how I was going to do this: do I actually remove it from the wrapper or do I shove the whole lot in? Do I put one finger in or both of them? I didn’t want to ask as I felt this would just make her nervous and would hardly instil confidence in the poor girl as she lay there, legs akimbo, about to be penetrated by a chocolate bar. I decided to insert a single finger and opened the wrapper, suddenly noticing that the chocolate was covered in a slightly grey sheen of condensation having been in the freezer all day, and was also as hard as a pavement, my thumbnail failing to leave an impression when I tested it.

“This is going to be cold,” I warned before introducing the Twix. She gasped as it slid inside and I left about an inch of it sticking out. For a moment I looked at the rather ridiculous and mildly scary sight before me, before bending down and biting off about half of the exposed finger of Twix.

Without warning the whole thing vanished inside her. Gone. I panicked, completely baffled, wondering what I should do. I didn’t think it would be The Done Thing to prise apart her labia like a mechanic lifting a bonnet before rummaging around inside, so I just lay there, staring, wanting to cry for a moment.

And then a thick, brown liquid began to ooze from her pubis. Terrified that it would ruin the sheets – which, after all, were not ours – I thrust my hand between her thighs and caught the melted chocolate as it dribbled out, but my hand quickly filled and I was then forced to consider what I was going to do with a hand full of rather hot melted Twix as I could hardly say “just crimp yourself off, love – I need to go and wash my hand”, so screwing my eyes shut I licked it off my hand while my other one was slowly filling.

Then, just as I thought it couldn’t get any worse, the biscuit base popped out, completely, eerily clean, stripped bare of chocolate and caramel, like an albino penis. I pulled it out and, hands full of chocolate, quickly ate it while I awaited for her sugary genital deluge to stop.

I don’t think I’ve eaten a Twix since.
(Thu 6th Aug 2009, 18:21, More)

» Biggest Sexual Regret

Twix of Doom (pearoast)
Pearoast, but relevant. And I've still not eaten one since.

My first girlfriend and I were together for about two and a half years. A few weeks before we split up we went on a short break to Cartmel in the Lake District, renting a cottage from my auntie’s boss. We had a nice time there, wandering around the priory, eating toasted teacakes and crumpets in a small tea shop, but a more deviant event was on the horizon.

“Would you eat something out of me?” she asked one evening.

I confess I was rather bewildered and wondered what she could mean: A banana? Some chocolate? A pie? I suggested these things and she decided that a Twix would be a good idea.

The next morning we walked to the local Spar shop and, being a chivalrous type, I allowed her to choose her Twix. As the chocolate was slightly soft I suggested that we should maybe put it into the freezer for a while so that it wouldn’t melt in a flash (amongst other things) and she agreed.

“I’m ready,” she said late that evening. She went upstairs before me while I retrieved the Twix from the freezer, following in her footsteps moments later. When I reached the bedroom she had already undressed and was lying on the bed, her legs apart. For a moment I wondered how I was going to do this: do I actually remove it from the wrapper or do I shove the whole lot in? Do I put one finger in or both of them? I didn’t want to ask as I felt this would just make her nervous and would hardly instil confidence in the poor girl as she lay there, legs akimbo, about to be penetrated by a chocolate bar. I decided to insert a single finger and opened the wrapper, suddenly noticing that the chocolate was covered in a slightly grey sheen of condensation having been in the freezer all day, and was also as hard as a pavement, my thumbnail failing to leave an impression when I tested it.

“This is going to be cold,” I warned before introducing the Twix. She gasped as it slid inside and I left about an inch of it sticking out. For a moment I looked at the rather ridiculous and mildly scary sight before me, before bending down and biting off about half of the exposed finger of Twix.

Without warning the whole thing vanished inside her. Gone. I panicked, completely baffled, wondering what I should do. I didn’t think it would be The Done Thing to prise apart her labia like a mechanic lifting a bonnet before rummaging around inside, so I just lay there, staring, wanting to cry for a moment.

And then a thick, brown liquid began to ooze from her pubis. Terrified that it would ruin the sheets – which, after all, were not ours – I thrust my hand between her thighs and caught the melted chocolate as it dribbled out, but my hand quickly filled and I was then forced to consider what I was going to do with a hand full of rather hot melted Twix as I could hardly say “just crimp yourself off, love – I need to go and wash my hand”, so screwing my eyes shut I licked it off my hand while my other one was slowly filling.

Then, just as I thought it couldn’t get any worse, the biscuit base popped out, completely, eerily clean, stripped bare of chocolate and caramel, like an albino penis. I pulled it out and, hands full of chocolate, quickly ate it while I awaited for her sugary genital deluge to stop.

I don’t think I’ve eaten a Twix since.
(Thu 8th Dec 2011, 18:26, More)

» Awesome Sickies

Two from school
One kid at my school once had a week off because his shoes were wet.

My favourite though... My best mate told me about a kid at his school who turned up at a swimming lesson with a letter supposedly from his mum, asking if he could be excused from swimming on account of the fact that he was soluble.
(Fri 9th Jun 2006, 11:50, More)

» Hotel Splendido

Somewhere in London (apologies for length)
I suppose I should have guessed that this would be slightly less than perfect when I boarded the taxi at Euston, told the driver where I was headed, and received the reply “Where?” For once, The Knowledge had seemingly deserted my driver… either that, or this hotel was eminently forgettable. It was, however, nothing of the sort.

It was snowing when I arrived, and Christmas Eve was four days away. I stepped from the taxi and walked towards the attractive terrace filled with high hopes. As I stepped through the narrow front door, struggling with my collection of holdalls and boxes, I saw a slightly shoddy reception area, and a pair of eyes and a forehead peering at me over the reception desk.

“Hi. I’ve got a reservation in the name of (my name),” I announced.

“I know,” replied the forehead. “Fill this in.” And with that, he handed me a tiny square of paper bearing three blank spaces labelled Name, Address, and Nationality. I filled it in and, after glancing over my details, the receptionist handed me the customary six-inch long key fob, telling me that I was in room 501 (or something like that). Not wanting to struggle up the stairs I asked where the lift was, only to be told that they didn’t have one. I asked if somebody could help me with my bags, but nobody was free. So I struggled up the stairs alone, noticing that each landing had its own Coca-Cola vending machine. A nice touch.

I reached the top floor, looked around, and saw that every door number started with a 4, indicating that I was on the fourth floor. There were, however, no more stairs to climb, so where was my room? I noticed a small alcove and, looking into it, I saw a narrow staircase, each step sagged through use over the years. The stairs were all of two feet wide, and I feared that this was merely a roof access ladder, so abandoning my luggage for a moment I climbed the stairs, finding my room and others at the top. I unlocked the door, switched the lights on, noticed a loud growling sound and a flashing light, then collected my belongings and went to settle in.

The flashing light was, it transpired, my bedside lamp, which was actually a fluorescent tube – unshielded – which had been screwed to the headboard. The tube was also on the verge of expiring, and was flickering slightly, but just enough to be noticeable and bring on either migraine or epilepsy. As for the growling noise, I found that it came from the bathroom. I opened the door, stepped inside, and realised that it was coming from the extractor fan, the cover of which was rattling noisily as a screw was missing from its underside. I turned the light out, waited about fifteen minutes for the fan to switch itself off, then removed the cover and put the light back on again. The fan whirred quietly, but it seemed to be encased in a large cube of fluff which it had accumulated, chunks of which were dropping onto the floor. Quickly I turned the light back off, put the cover back on as soon as the fan had stopped, and resolved to shower in the dark, an experience which made bathing somewhat like being a member of the cast of “Das Boot.”

As for the rest of the bedroom, it was ferociously hot and L-shaped, a narrow passage leading from the door before turning to the right. The bed more or less filled the main part of the room, a gap of around twelve inches between its clear side – the other side being pushed hard against the opposite wall – and the wall, and at its foot stood a dressing table and a wardrobe. The wardrobe had a hinged door, but as the gap between the door and the end of the bed was around eight inches in total, it couldn’t actually be opened fully, and so to make use of the wardrobe you had to put your clothes onto a hanger, hold them flat against the outside of the wardrobe, and then slide them into the gap before twisting your hand and attempting to find the hidden rail.

Upon the dressing table there was a television, and a small card standing on its top told me that one of its channels was “Sky.” Not knowing which Sky channel this was, I switched the set on and saw that it was one of the movie channels, so I left this on as I attempted to unpack. After a few minutes, however, the film became a cricket match, and I realised that the hotel had a single Sky box, and this was controlled by the man sitting at the reception desk, so whatever he watched was beamed into every room. Not being a cricket fan, I switched the set off, went to the toilet in the dark, and then went to bed…

…and promptly fell out of it. Because of the shape of the room, previous guests had been forced to get into the bed in a single place and, as time went by, this spot on the mattress sagged, so when you lay in the bed your backside was significantly lower than the rest of your body. In addition, for reasons unknown, the side of the bed away from the outside wall also appeared to be lower than the other, and as a result I had to lie in the bed on my left side, my hands hooked over the opposite edge of the mattress in order to stop myself rolling out. I took one last look out of the window at the snow falling over London, gripped the mattress, and settled down to sleep.

When I awoke the next morning I discovered that the bed was wet. I looked around, wondering if the room was raining in, even if I had wet myself, but neither was the case. The external wall of the room was coated in white gloss paint, and was a Dorma-style extension, against which the bed was positioned. As the temperature inside the room was so much greater than the world outside, condensation had formed on the wall during the night, trickled down the painted surface, and soaked the bed through. I leapt from the bed, had a shower in the dark, dressed, and went to breakfast.

“Morning,” said the man on the reception desk, but as I was half-way down the stairs and out of his sight. How did he know I was there? It was simple, really: he had positioned a mirror at the foot of the stairs, angled such that he could see people coming down. I walked into the reception, feeling a little nervous, and proceeded to look for my breakfast.

“You looking for breakfast?” he asked. I nodded. “It’s down here,” he replied, pointing behind the counter. I half expected him to hand me a plate of toast and some cereal, but when I looked over the desk I saw a trap door, a wooden staircase leading into the cellar.

“You’re joking…” I gasped. He shook his head. Deciding to humour him, I slowly descended. As I was half way down, I heard him lift the telephone and dial a number.

“He’s on his way,” he said, and quickly replaced the receiver. Instantly I had visions of a masked lunatic waiting at the bottom of the stairs, a cricket bat held in his raised arms, ready to swing at his latest gullible victim.

I found myself in a small room, a tiny window allowing a little light to enter, illuminating the motes of dust which hung in the air. Each table in the room had a glass of orange juice waiting, and a bowl of cereal, the milk already poured. I sat down, wondering a) why I was alone, and b) why I was there at all.

Moments later, a slightly mad-looking woman approached. “Yes?” she asked, not blinking.

“Breakfast?” I replied.

“Yes?” she repeated.

“Cereal?” I asked.

“There’s some there,” she said, pointing to the bowl before me.

“Can I have some without the milk already on them?”

“Why?”

I decided that an alternative plan was necessary.

“Tea and toast?” I asked.

“And?” she replied.

“That’s it.”

“No cooked breakfast?” she said, frowning, a baffled expression on her face.

“No thanks.”

“Oh.” And with a suspicious look, she scurried off to the kitchen. A few second passed, before I heard muttering and, as I looked up, I saw a few faces peer around the kitchen door, seemingly wanting to see the mysterious guest who didn’t want a cooked breakfast. Eventually, my toast came, and after picking at it, I left.
(Thu 17th Jan 2008, 18:53, More)

» IT Support

The wrong cartridge
We had an ink-jet fax machine in the office and one day its cartridge ran dry. Our helpdesk guy headed into the stationery cupboard and emerged after a few moments with a brand new cartridge in his hand, then spent a few minutes trying to install it without success. When he finally admitted defeat he looked at the cartridge and noticed that it was emblazoned with the brand name “Brother”, whereas the fax was manufactured by Ricoh, so the two were clearly incompatible.

Now, what would a normal person do at this point? Surely the sensible thing would be to put the Brother cartridge back into the cupboard and find a Ricoh cartridge instead. The IT guy however decided to spend several minutes looking at the old and new cartridges side by side from various angles in order to try to spot where they were different. After a while he saw that the only difference was a small plastic lump on the top of the Brother cartridge, which he proudly pointed out to all of us. Then, as an idea clearly dawned on him, he dashed out of the office and returned with an angle grinder which, for some reason, he kept in his car. Surely he wouldn’t, we thought.

He disappeared into the kitchen and after an initial whirr from the grinder we heard his scream, then he ran into the office covered in ink, the wildly squirting cartridge still in his hands, crying “MAKE IT STOP!” as he ran towards our pristine white shirts and suits.
(Thu 24th Sep 2009, 19:41, More)