Last night I spent the evening at my girlfriend’s place and because I’m so incredibly handsome and charming and because my girlfriend was quite drunk, I was able to have intimate relations with her and her vagina.
I won’t bore you with all the disgusting foreplay details, but will skip two minutes straight into the sexual climax part.
My girlfriend is usually quite docile in bed. Quite often she pretends to not be enjoying it, but last night she seemed very frisky. More to the point, she was quite vocal.
As we were approaching climax, she seemed more and more excited until I heard the words every man dreads to hear when he’s in bed with his girlfriend.
“Oh God! Yes Dave! Yes!”
Now these are words that probably don’t worry guys called Dave, but for the rest of us, and I happen to be one of these men not called Dave, we can find it quite confusing.
Anyway, once these words were screamed, it put a slight dampener on the proceedings and we both just lay in bed not saying anything to one another.
I guess I should have said something, but two very important questions were going through my mind and I didn’t know how to address the issue.
Firstly, who the fuck is Dave?
Secondly, why am I screaming Dave’s name out loud while I’m having sex with my girlfriend?
Sunday 16 March 2008
Wednesday 12 March 2008
NHS’s kinky requests
When I first arrived in the UK, I had to register with the NHS, in order to be given horrible diseases, in case I had to go to hospital due to an ingrown toenail.
I was unaware of the process of registering and as I’m a manly man, I did not ask for directions or information about this process, as this might make me appear to be slightly feminine. Anyway I went along to my local doctor’s office, without asking for directions, where a receptionist gave some forms and a plastic cup and told to return at a future date.
Of course my manly manliness again prevented me from saying to the receptionist, “What the fuck am I suppose to do with this plastic cup?” I merely gave her a manly nod of the head and strode home in a manly manner.
The cup was quite small and had a lid, so as my Sherlock Holmes instincts took over, I presumed that I had to fill it with some type of fluid from my body. This left me with five options:
- Piss
- Shit
- Blood
- Vomit
- Semen
Or possibly a dangerous mixture of all of the above.
My Sherlock Holmes instincts continued to take hold of me and logic dictated that the cup was too small for shit and vomit and if they wanted blood, surely they would have given me some kind of pointed stick to help me sever an artery. So I was left with piss and semen, just like a London Underground train.
As the day of the appointment approached I considered what the reactions of the incorrect sample at the doctor’s office would be like. If I whipped out some warm yellow liquid, when they were expecting some throat yoghurt, would they expect me to have a wank in the doctor’s office? What if I couldn’t perform under the pressure of the situation and they’d have to get a sexy nurse or two to join me in the office in order to give me a hand?
I couldn’t even imagine that… at all… two nurses… wanking me off… ewe!
So on the day of the appointment, I decided to take them some of my wee.
Of course I had a back-up plan, in case my fluid was too yellow for their liking. I decided to keep the little plastic cup of wee, with its lid tightly shut, inside my jacket pocket and when the doctor asked me for my urine sample, I would simply remove the cup from my pocket and hand it over. But if the doctor asked me for my semen sample, I would claim to have forgotten my cup at home, but if he’s willing to send three nurses in, I would quickly remedy the situation.
Genius!
I waited in reception, armed with wee and was finally called in to see the doctor. To my surprise I was not greeted by a sixty year old man with a grey beard, but by a very attractive female doctor who was about my age.
Time seemed to slow down as she asked, “So do you have…”
What will she ask for? Urine or semen? URINE OR SEMEN??
The doctor continued, “… a little present for me?”
WHAT? I had not expected this. I needed a clear-cut question. This could go horribly wrong. I replied, “Um…”
I was hoping that she would help me out.
I got nothing but a blank stare from her.
I continued, “Do you mean my…”
I left the sentence hanging, hoping that she’d finish it for me.
Nothing!
I gulped and finished “… urine sample?”
“Yes,” She politely replied.
I exhaled with relief. Whipped out my cup of wee and handed it to her.
Why must women act all coy when they want your wee? Why can’t they just come out and say it?
“Little present?” My ass!
I was unaware of the process of registering and as I’m a manly man, I did not ask for directions or information about this process, as this might make me appear to be slightly feminine. Anyway I went along to my local doctor’s office, without asking for directions, where a receptionist gave some forms and a plastic cup and told to return at a future date.
Of course my manly manliness again prevented me from saying to the receptionist, “What the fuck am I suppose to do with this plastic cup?” I merely gave her a manly nod of the head and strode home in a manly manner.
The cup was quite small and had a lid, so as my Sherlock Holmes instincts took over, I presumed that I had to fill it with some type of fluid from my body. This left me with five options:
- Piss
- Shit
- Blood
- Vomit
- Semen
Or possibly a dangerous mixture of all of the above.
My Sherlock Holmes instincts continued to take hold of me and logic dictated that the cup was too small for shit and vomit and if they wanted blood, surely they would have given me some kind of pointed stick to help me sever an artery. So I was left with piss and semen, just like a London Underground train.
As the day of the appointment approached I considered what the reactions of the incorrect sample at the doctor’s office would be like. If I whipped out some warm yellow liquid, when they were expecting some throat yoghurt, would they expect me to have a wank in the doctor’s office? What if I couldn’t perform under the pressure of the situation and they’d have to get a sexy nurse or two to join me in the office in order to give me a hand?
I couldn’t even imagine that… at all… two nurses… wanking me off… ewe!
So on the day of the appointment, I decided to take them some of my wee.
Of course I had a back-up plan, in case my fluid was too yellow for their liking. I decided to keep the little plastic cup of wee, with its lid tightly shut, inside my jacket pocket and when the doctor asked me for my urine sample, I would simply remove the cup from my pocket and hand it over. But if the doctor asked me for my semen sample, I would claim to have forgotten my cup at home, but if he’s willing to send three nurses in, I would quickly remedy the situation.
Genius!
I waited in reception, armed with wee and was finally called in to see the doctor. To my surprise I was not greeted by a sixty year old man with a grey beard, but by a very attractive female doctor who was about my age.
Time seemed to slow down as she asked, “So do you have…”
What will she ask for? Urine or semen? URINE OR SEMEN??
The doctor continued, “… a little present for me?”
WHAT? I had not expected this. I needed a clear-cut question. This could go horribly wrong. I replied, “Um…”
I was hoping that she would help me out.
I got nothing but a blank stare from her.
I continued, “Do you mean my…”
I left the sentence hanging, hoping that she’d finish it for me.
Nothing!
I gulped and finished “… urine sample?”
“Yes,” She politely replied.
I exhaled with relief. Whipped out my cup of wee and handed it to her.
Why must women act all coy when they want your wee? Why can’t they just come out and say it?
“Little present?” My ass!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)