Those among you who have been sexually active for a few years will no doubt have your own tales from between the bed sheets. Some might be funny, some might be embarrassing, and some might even be painful. I doubtless have a few more hidden somewhere in the back of my memory, but the one that immediately springs to mind concerns my short, but sweet relationship with a Chinese girl. At the time of meeting my soon-to-be sexual conquest, I was working at Cooper Turbocompressor and had been sent on a 4 week IT course at Stow College in Glasgow. On the first day, I scanned the room, as one does, hoping to spot some eye candy to befriend, so as to make my 4 week boot camp as painless as possible. Luckily for me, amongst the herd of insular-looking males, I spotted a solitary femme who piqued my interest. She was Chinese (a fantasy of mine), slim and quite stunning, not to mention likely out my league. Always up for a challenge, I sought to woo her with something of a charm offensive. I had no doubts that I was punching ever so slightly above my weight, but I persisted nevertheless. I find that I'm quite adept at disguising my true intentions when I pursue a girl, and so engaged stealth-mode in the hope that this tactic would yet again prove fruitful. I befriended her initially, and quickly discovered that she was genuinely Chinese, as opposed to being a Scottish-born imposter. Hearing her accent only served to spur me on. "F**k the IT course," I thought. "My boss will respect the sudden shift in my priorities". After some initial resistance, I achieved a breakthrough. She wanted me to teach her some Scottish colloquialisms. I suggested that we go to the cinema, for once correctly reading a woman's signals. She proved to be tough work, however. I felt the need to push harder than is normal for me. I soon conceded that I would have to chase her and be rather more obvious about my intentions. I did so, and one evening after yet another trip to the cinema, I took the plunge and went in for a snog while we waited for the train. She reciprocated and I quietly rejoiced. Not so long after this groundbreaking kiss, I reverted to my trademark indifference and her first visit to my house saw her begging me to have sex. I initially resisted, a little through nerves, but mostly because I'm an insufferable tease. I consented eventually and we got to undressing. This was the first of a few revealing moments. Removing her top, I noticed as she raised her arms that she had either neglected to shave or simply did not give a toss. Now, this was simply intriguing more than it was disconcerting. It was unique in my experience, given that I have never shagged anyone before or since who has had more armpit hair than I do. I carried on regardless, surprisingly not the least bit turned off. As I was about to enter her for the first time, I was reminded of the many Asian porn movies I had witnessed throughout my young life and the way in which the women behaved during intercourse, in contrast to women of other cultures. What I mean by this is that Asian porn stars invariably scream the house down and look like they are in serious pain. I wondered would life imitate "art". It didn't. It surpassed it. My Chinese lady friend more than likely alerted the neighbours, yelping as though I had assaulted her with a pneumatic drill, arms above her head proudly displaying her dedication to remaining natural. Now, I am your average Joe in terms of size, so this reaction was flattering to say the least. I continued, undeterred by these distractions. Things evolved, as they tend to do, and she hopped on top. As she treated me in the manner one would a pony, she felt this an apt time to initiate the following exchange. I beg of you, forgive the following exchange if it appears offensive, but this was how it went, verbatim. Her: "Don´t you ruv me?" Me: "What!?" Her: "Rike! Rike! I mean ´Don't you rike me!?´" This was the last straw. I began to giggle quite furiously. We had to stop, as hilarity is not conducive to sexual satisfaction. Luckily she didn´t take offence and we continued to see each other until she moved away to Belgium. Well, I say that she didn't take offence. Then again, she did move to another country a month later.
There was a time, a few years ago, when alcohol and I were as compatible as chocolate and chips. Growing up, I had always promised myself that I would remain teetotal. It didn't make sense to me that people who had consumed alcohol temporarily ceased to function as normal, oftentimes their personality changing quite dramatically. I remember confronting my mother during one evening in which she had become particularly legless and, as was the case on the rare occasion that this occurred, she donned her wedding dress and paraded around our living room in front of the guests. They all laughed as I rolled my eyes and asked, "Why can't you act normally? Just don't let the alcohol affect you." I daresay her response was most likely scathing. However, I could scarcely understand a word she said in between slurs, and so slipped back on through to my room, mortified by her behaviour. Looking back, it was extremely naive of me. This fact has been reinforced on several occasions, but most effectively when I was 18. I had not so long ago surrendered to the wishes of my friends to drink socially with them. I had a nervous habit, however, of drinking very fast and this led to me becoming drunk earlier than is recommended, particularly when you plan to leave clubs at the 4am closing time. I had just left the Destiny night club in Glasgow with my friends Paul and Steven, and we were heading down to get something to eat when we bumped into 3 girls in a similarly paralytic state. Paul and Steven set about chatting to these girls as I stared into space while eating my bag of chips, which at that moment were infinitely more attractive than the girls who were flirting with us. Paul, my best friend at the time, was a resourceful sort and, heaven knows why, told them that there was a party back at my place (there wasn't). Upon hearing this, one of the girls pointed at me and asked, "His place?" Upon seeing this finger pointed at me, and being utterly unaware of what they were talking about, I took great offence, assuming that she was poking fun at me. To the horror of my mates, I kicked the bag of chips this girl was eating out of her hands and yelled, "Who the f**k you takin' the piss out of?" Steven and Paul looked at me, mouths agape, realising that their sloshed mate had essentially just cock-blocked them.The girls and I engaged in a shouting match as my friends tried to grasp what had just happened. The girls eventually waved down a taxi and got in. As they drove away, I took off down the street and chased after their taxi like a dog chasing a rabbit, shaking my fist at them like a cartoon villain. This further confused my friends, who were still processing the fact that I had kicked a newspaper full of chips onto a girl they were doubtless minutes away from shagging. I woke up the next morning and was duly informed of my transgression. Throughout the day excerpts of the evening prior came back to me, each piece of the puzzle more excruciating than the last. Why can't you just "act normally" when you have a belly full of Jack Daniels? Now I knew why. Luckily my wild days are behind me and I have evolved into a happy drunk, no longer prone to assaulting people with fatty foods.
Once upon a time, when I was but a naive teenger, I worked with a company called Cooper Turbocompressor. My official job was to draw up compressor plans via AutoCAD. Unofficially, however, as was the case with my job at our local firestation, I was little more than a liability, kept around, if I do say so myself, for my amiable personality. My boss, the David Brent type, was in his late thirties with aspirations of reliving his youth. We got along well and I would invariably spend a large portion of the day in his office chatting. Please note that the above has little to do with what follows, but I feel a little backstory always helps. Well, for a brief period we had a temporary engineer working with us, called John, while my boss found a permanent replacement for Alan, who had just recently left. Well, John was your typical grizzled veteran, the type who would prattle on for hours about "the old days". He was a sweet old bloke, if a little nutty. A few months passed without incident, but then we started to notice that John would disappear from his desk for up to an hour at a time. Occasionally engineers have an excuse for being away from their desk, but not quite so frequently and not for vast chunks of the day. We also noticed that he began to smell like a brewery. Well, one day Bob (fellow co-worker and professional coffin dodger) instructed me to go down to the toilets and check on John, as he had been absent for a good 45 minutes. I obliged only to find that one of the cubicle doors was locked. I began to bang on the door and yell repeatedly, "John, are you in there?" No response. Given that he was in his 60's and had not responsed after 5 minutes of me yelling through the cubicle door at him, I feared the worst. I ran upstairs to get Bob and my boss, as the idea of peering over the cubicle to check on him was a terrifying prospect. Once the cavalry had gathered in the bathroom, I was still given the task of checking on him. I did so with some trepidation, climbing on top of the neighbouring toilet and peering over. What I saw left me wondering whether to laugh or cry. Upon seeing that he was still breathing, laughter appeared the more rational option. He had passed out with his pants around his ankles, cock in hand, mid wank, with a half bottle of whiskey laying on his stomach. Needless to say, my laughter soon gave way to concern for the poor bloke's health. He could, after all, have slipped into a coma in the midst of what must have been a mind-blowing spank session, but the sheer comedy of what I had witnessed momentarily shorted my ability to use any common sense. Bob thereafter took the lead, hopping up onto the toilet and dousing John with water in the hopes of waking him up. He succeeded, only to find that John was still, for all intents and purposes, sh*tfaced. The three of us then attempted to coax him out of the cubicle for a around 20 minutes, to which he generally rebuked "F**kin' behave yerselves, f**kin' behave!!" (note the Scottish colloquialism). By now other departments had been informed and by the time he had partially sobered up and left the cubicle, there were 7 of us crammed into what was a small bathroom. Needless to say, John was let go shortly afterwards. The shame is, though, that it later came out that John's wife had been diagnosed with terminal stomach cancer, and thus he began to drink more heavily, quite understandably. Had we known, it probably wouldn't have been quite so funny.
Over the 10 or so years that I have been exposed to the wonders of porn, it has previously occurred to me that this much stigmatised form of artistic expression occupies a role more diverse than mere titillation. Indeed, one particular occasion springs to mind. About 5 years ago while I was working at my local fire station, porn was oftentimes the topic of discussion, as one would expect in such a testosterone-heavy environment. This was most true of two individuals in particular: Steven Benzies and John McNicol, the former a reformed ned (chav), and the latter a world champion sleaze merchant. John revelled in telling us tales of his sexcapades and the sex hotlines he frequented. I initially tried to offset this disturbing mental image with the theory that John used these lines to talk about problems he felt too embarrassed to talk to us about. However, John quickly dispelled such notions, taking great delight in illustrating to us his wanking habits. The first tidbit we were privy to was the particular type of wank John had enjoyed the evening previous. For example: "I had a ******* great posh wank last night". For the uninitiated, this is British slang for masturbating while sporting a condom. Why this is considered "posh" I have no clue. It seemed that John, bless him, had an infinite list of such methods, including a "cheeky wank", a "dirty wank", an "angry wank", so on and so forth. Pick an adverb from a hat, stick it before "wank" and you can be sure that John mentioned it. Strangely, though, my realisation that porn could be mined for comedy gold was not born out of John regaling me with tales of subtly diverse wanking technqiues. No, it was his fellow deviant and co-worker, Steven, who introduced me to porn so gag heavy that a laugh track would not have felt out of place. The name of the porn in question? No one knows. It was simply a montage of scenes on a tape labelled "Lethal Weapon", which belonged to Steven's dad. Clearly the tape did not contain a single scene of the Mel Gibson 80's classic. Despite this obvious inconsistency, the name was inspired for a couple of reasons. Firstly, it goes without saying that the lady of the house was not an avid porn viewer and was equally unlikely to rifle through the tape collection and settle on "Lethal Weapon", thus our heroes' sleaze tape remained a secret.I managed to coax Steven into lending me the tape and later that same night, once everyone had gone to bed, I slipped it into the machine for a little late night erotica, as one does. What I expected from this experience was a diamond-hard erection. What I ended up with was sore sides and tears streaming down my face, to the extent that I began to worry that my incessant chuckling had woken my parents. I can only imagine how they would react to their son, pants around his ankles, tugging away while laughing hysterically like he'd just watched an episode of Seinfeld. Their mere disappointment would soon give way to concerns for their son's mental well being. I'm sure I don't have to tell you gents how distracting it is to be mid-stroke only to then be interrupted by involuntary fits of giggles. Well, this was my plight. And such was my mixture of hilarity and frustration, I eventually had to turn said tape off and relieve myself with the aid of a generic bikini-clad blonde from FHM. An anti-climax, to say the least. I could go into detail about the tape, but I daresay I could not do it justice. Instead, let this suffice and use your imagination to fill in the blanks: Badly dubbed with thick-as-pig-shit Birmingham accents, porn moustaches that put the stereotype to shame and some of the most absurd haircuts ever conceived. Bear in mind, this does not even scratch the surface. In hindsight, it's the type of movie that rewards repeat viewing, such are its subtleties. Did I stumble upon the Citizen Kane of porn or are they all so hilarious?[/b]