If only I could think of more words beginning with ‘P’. Four is pretty good as far as alliterated story names go, right? This one takes place a month or two after last week’s story and chronicles yet another disgusting story involving our disgusting house mate Phil. Read last week’s story first for the full effect, or you can’t be bothered: Phil is a sadomasochist, into odd sex games, oozes ’sex pest’ness and has a teenage Asian girlfriend that he probably bought in the Philippines. As always, if you want more stories of this kind, head over to Lilu’s blog.

Enjoy. No, really.

We were cleaning his room, my housemate and I. It was the end of the year and Phil had finally packed his bags and checked out of our shared student house. Being a sadomasochistic, selfish prick he had of course left a lot of mess in the room: an unmade bed, a floor covered in hair, some odd socks strewn about — the usual. It took a while but the room was finally detritus-free and dusted, ready for its new occupant — me! — all that remained was to do some vacuuming.

In hindsight, after the anal beads incident, I probably should’ve thought twice before shoving the end of the vacuum under the bed. The odd, musky, fishy smell that had wafted around the room should’ve set all kinds of alarms off.

Hwwnnnksplttttt-rrrrrrrrrrrrr

That’s the sound of an unhappy sucking device (trust me, I know these things). Quickly turning it off, lest I blow up the mighty suction beast, I ask my house mate to kindly go and yank the obstruction out of the nozzle.

‘It’s awfully dark in here…’ She’s poking around, trying to get a grip.

I wait patiently, wishing the machine had a ‘blow’ setting so I could just… shoot it out! (Wouldn’t that be neat?)

‘I think I got it! It’s… squishy…’ There’s some kind of thwnkwn-splat sound as she finally pulls it out, the tip of it held between her fingers, the body of the rubbery receptacle slapping against her bare stomach.

Gulping, I look at her stomach. ‘Don’t look down!’ She looks at me, tears welling up in her eyes, fear, uncertainty and doubt all intermingling. Eventually she caves and looks down, and screams.

In between her fingertips is the tip of a condom and sloshed across her naked midriff is its rotten, yellowing contents. Phil’s final farewell gift delivered in a way more perfect than he could ever imagine.

She screamed again and ran to wash herself, notes of sickness tinting her warbling vocals.

I called out to her in the bathroom: ‘The worst bit is, I know where that condom is from, and you’re not going to like it…’

Let’s go back four weeks…

I can only assume that they hadn’t anticipated on anyone returning home before 2am, the usual club closing time.

I was stumbling home from university, alone and semi-inebriated. I remember being confused at finding both the ground floor bedroom and kitchen lights on as I approached the house — it was 1am, a whole hour after midnight snack time. I unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Usually I would’ve sneaked upstairs cautious not to wake anyone that might be asleep. Instead, the fool that I am, I pushed the kitchen door open.

Whack!

They didn’t hear me as I tip-toed across the plastic floor and took a seat at the table.

WHACK! Ow, baby, harder…

I reached for the bottle of cheap red sitting on the table and poured myself a glass, my drunk eyes trying in vain to digest what was going on just a few feet away. Really, a nurse outfit, Phil? Latex?

WHACK! I know how you like it, big boy!

Looking up from the wine I finally decided it was unfair to let them continue. I was drunk, but I knew this was the kind of thing that would haunt both Phil and his girlfriend for decades — and inevitably: their children. Putting away my camera phone — what an evil, malevolent grin I had on my face — I called out to them.

‘Evening, Phil. Nice ass.’

His girlfriend stumbled, her downswing with the spiked paddle missing completely and hitting the kitchen sink. Turning around to look at me I could finally see the full extent of his child girlfriend’s plastic nurse outfit. If she had breasts, they would’ve hung out of the cut-away, plunging top. The skirt, the belt, left nothing to the imagination. My eyes followed down her short, knobbly, puppy fat-laden legs until I found a pair of black, buckled stilettos with very imposing, spiked heels.

I shook my head, trying to focus on Phil’s back and bottom. It was your usual, run-of-the-mill crotchless leather gimp suit. His buttocks were red raw, little bloody welts forming where the spikes on the paddle had repetitively hit the same spot and eventually broken his hairless skin.

But worst of all, hanging between his legs was his semi-limp penis still sheathed in a condom. And it wasn’t empty.

Back to the present…

My housemate rushes back into the bedroom and glares at me, her stomach and tank-top soaked through, her navel red from being scratched and scrubbed and purged of the disgustingly glutinous fluid.

Sometimes, she says,  it’s better to not tell the entire story.

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For those of you that read this blog on a regular basis you’ll know that my mother likes to comment. In fact, reading my blog is part of her ‘breakfast routine’ — she can often be found with a cup of tea and pastry in-hand as she reads my blog in the morning, her face displaying a terrible, nervous grin as she discovers yet another disgusting fact about her ‘beautiful, first-born son Sebastian’ (that’s how she introduces me to friends).

Every Thursday morning, like clockwork, she yells up the stairs: ‘That’s not true is it Sebastian?!’

And every time I answer with a noncommittal ‘Maybe… now where’s my coffee?’

Basically, my mother and I have a very close relationship. We talk about almost everything. She’s not quite as smart as me, but she’s a lot brighter than people give her credit for! She’s funny, though not generally witty, but occasionally she pulls out a good one. And that’s what this story’s about.

As always… for more TMI Thursday stories, check out Lilu’s infamous blog!

I’m going to tell you the origin of our ‘Embarrass Each Other’ game. It’s a very self-destructive game but just too damn fun to give up. The basic idea is simple: try to embarrass mum/Seb as much as possible. Normally this is achieved by talking very loudly in public places: theme parks, supermarkets, malls, that kind of thing. Teenage boys have a lot of things they’re embarrassed by and, believe it or not, so do ageing women!

So we’re at the supermarket on Saturday, buying food for the week. It’s very busy. We find ourselves in the ‘toiletries’ aisle, home of shampoo, toothpaste and… objects of a more private nature.

“Hey, mum, don’t you need to pick up a pregnancy test? What with all those random guys you’ve been sleeping with…”

I start off quietly, low-key. One old lady turns to look at my mother disapprovingly but we ignore her.

“Shall we check if they have those special condoms for people of a smaller, midget-like stature?” She’s louder. A couple of teenage girls turn to giggle at me. Low-blow, mum.

“What about those adult diapers? You know, those nappies that you can wear to prevent ‘embarrassing moments’. They’re just over here I think…” No more Mr Nice Guy. Right in there with the incontinence pants. We’ve often joked that my sole purpose in life is to look after her when she’s older and less… in control.

“Oh, look, they have special razors for that unibrow of yours! AND you can use it when you finally get some facial hair! Two birds with one stone!” (OK, so I was a late bloomer…) — I don’t think she realises just how loud she’s shouting, but people at both ends of the aisle have stopped to look at us. Even those paying for their food and the staff have started watching us.

“Ahhh, look! THE THRUSH CREAM! FOR THE ITCHING! Really, anything to stop you whining about that damn burning sensation!”

My mum pouts and falls silent. I’ve won; not without taking a few blows, but I’ve won, that’s what matters. I’m smiling like a smug idiot that’s just won the Special Prize. People are looking at me as if I’m dribbling down my front and walking with a limp usually reserved for limb-dragging quadriplegics.

And then my girlfriend appears. She waltzes down the aisle, unaware of the drama that’s just unfolded. She stops at one shelf and picks up a pack of extra-small condoms. She stops again and picks up a tube of thrush cream. Only then does she notice my mother and I.

OH SHI–