Warning: This post contains adult themes of a sexual nature.

After the (un)comfortably-short-skirt incident my life settled down: I got a proper girlfriend. A fun-loving straight girl that actually liked PENIS instead of strap-ons — hooray! Now fast forward a year: I’ve been in a relationship for a year and things are going well — as well as can be expected for my first long-term girlfriend!

It was 10am and far too early to be up and about, but we both had lectures to attend so there we were, lamely limping into university, her arms around me.

‘I’d offer to carry you on my back, but I think I put it out during the standing-69…’

We hobbled on in contemplative silence, the night of passion coming back to flood our senses. We grin at each other.

‘It’s OK, Sebby. I don’t think I could hold on with these thighs anyway… What did you DO down there?’

To say that we had an active sex life would be a massive understatement. Once upon a time sex 5, 6, 7 times a night wasn’t a problem. I’d collapse in a sweaty heap afterward but be ready to go again in the morning! Today, a flight of stairs will leave me breathless. That’s why I’ve been working on my cardiac fitness, incidentally. I can’t imagine a girl would be very understanding if I go to all the effort of serenading, courting, wooing… and then not follow through with the goods. Anti-climax, I think they’d call it. Not usually a problem of mine, being an under-sexed geek, but a man should look after his heart! Back at university, I actually kept a list of every available room and surface in the house, and by the end of university everything on that list had been crossed off (I think some of my university housemates are reading this — sorry you had to find out this way but we did tidy up properly…)

In most extended sexual encounters, a couple will go through a variety of positions: the tight, fully-clothed embrace, followed by lingering kisses down the jaw to the neck. A hand slips inside your shirt, or skirt, and then your hands are everywhere all at once, fingertips reawakening parts of you that have lain dormant since the last time you were together; nether regions that can only be awoken by your lover. The kissing and groping continues, the latent heat building up between you until you’re uncomfortably hot. Finally one of you stops and looks down. Pause. You’re at a crossroads: to the left there’s dinner, dessert and Desperate Housewives. To the right, a night of sweaty, limb-entwined debauchery. I grin and slide down over her stomach, leaving teasing little kisses as I go. A quick bite on the thigh and it’s time for sex, baby!

If you’re athletic and gymnastic, or just plain crazy, there are a lot of positions available to you: some intimate, some not. Some easy-going and some so blisteringly intense that I’m lucky if I last more than a few minutes. A lot of couples, I am told, don’t get much further than the missionary position — whether that’s due to lack of creativity, or an upbringing where inventiveness in the bedroom is considered aberrated I don’t know, but they’re missing out!

This is where things are going to become a little Too Much Information (TMI), so if you’re under 18 or wearing tight clothing, you might want to look away now.

We both had a day off and we were making the most of it — sex during daylight hours is a lot of fun: erotic and explicit because you’re totally exposed. It’s about as ‘exhibitionist’ as you can get without actually doing it in public. Little did we know, there actually was a spectator, a voyeur — we were unwittingly exhibiting ourselves! There we were, on my bed, naked and excited. The kissing had come and gone, the foreplay had been abandoned and she slid over my my body into one of our favourite positions (if you can’t see the animation below, you’ll have to visit my blog — it’s not quite right, but it gives you a good idea of what I’m talking about).

I’ll spare you most of the details (you can click the little animation, if you want more info) but I’ll tell you this: it’s a good position, a really good position. For both of you. And I haven’t had the chance to do it in… 4 years now… Jesus. ANYWAY…

You have to imagine lots of panting and whimpering now — mine if you’re a girl and hers if you’re a guy. Faster, harder, deeper! No, no, wrong hole! YES, yes, YES. My arms are burning — I’ve got strong fingers from the typing, but my arms just aren’t up to the job. Quicker and tighter, I give it all I’ve got, hoping we make it to the finishing line together — it’s going to be close, but if I can time it just right and if I don’t pass out… The panting turns to moaning, the whimpering now a low growl. Sebby, I’m… coming…

‘OH MY GOD, WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO THAT GIRL?’

Sebby… don’t… stop!

‘My housemate’s mother is looking through the bedroom window at us. Do you really want me to carry on?’ Mid-thrust, I give her a little wave from my vantage point, hidden underneath my girlfriend’s very naked, very pink and still-quivering body.

But, but… buttt… She squirms around, still very much attached to me and not ready to let go just yet. She sighs. Fine… The g-spot orgasm she’d been seconds away from has eluded her, for a while longer at least.

My housemate’s mother is still watching, her nose pushed up against the window, a rictus of curiousity and terror embossed upon her face. I notice I’ve left one of the windows open. Damn.

‘Should we continue…?’ I don’t want to disappoint our new-found fan. Finally it dawns on my girlfriend that someone’s mother has just watched us go at it, possibly for a long time… She quickly climbs under the duvet and glares at the window. Make her go away, Sebby…

Eventually my housemate arrived — she’d heard the scream and come running. Looking in she grinned at me (another story, that one) and pulled her catatonic mother away who was still muttering to herself, ‘but… she’s just a child…’

What I would’ve  given to read her mother’s thoughts.  I have my money on: ‘That girl needs a merkin!’

Much like last week’s entry, this one definitely contains very adult themes — no pictures or animations this time though, so it is work-safe! The title is a little misleading, but you’ll have to read the entire story if you want to find out why. If I disappear from the Internet for a few days after publishing this, it’s because I’ve gone to hide in a corner, whereupon I will be blushing like a schoolgirl that’s just accidentally touched a boy’s willy. If you want more Too Much Information (TMI) stories head over to Lilu’s blog — but my story’s probably far more embarrassing than any of theirs.

The hotel room itself was nice enough, functional. A king-size bed: a little firm, but good back-support would be ideal for the kind of weekend we had planned.

It was all going so well until she pulled out the tube of lube.

‘It’s time, Seb.’

Time for what? My mind was racing, desperately trying to work out what I’d agreed to. Was this another case of me forgetting the little details? Women are so good at remembering. Had I agreed to do something and then conveniently filed it into the ‘Nag Me So That I Remember’ compartment of my mind?

She shifted her weight. She must’ve noticed my hesitation. I’d been very, very keen so far to try anything and everything — so had she! — but now I was sitting on the bed, staring at the tube she held in her hand. There was an impish grin on her face. An impatient-looking grin.

‘Ohhh…!’ I still hadn’t a clue but, by now, I’d learnt to just go with it, be decisive — there’s a big difference between rushing out at the last moment to buy your girlfriend a birthday present and actually forgetting her birthday.

‘Right… hand it over then!’

[I'm struggling to write the story at this point, but I'll continue on... -S]

I squirted a little lube onto my hand. Cold, slimy. What was I meant to do? Just rub it on? Sure, I can do that… On it went. Slippery. A little chilly too — menthol? Wow, my nervousness slipping away, this was going to be wild!

She sat back onto me — the Asian Cowgirl (don’t click!), apparently –  and… sure enough, the lube helped; a bit too much, if you know what I mean, boys. Before I know it, she’s bouncing around like a maniac, my biceps pumping like pistons. Faster, faster, DEEPER – penetration has never been this easy! In the heat of the moment I decide to go for one of my favourite moves, the back-breaking whip-it-all-the-way-out-and-then-thrust-back-in-even-deeper. I arch my back and push her upwards, escaping for just a moment. We take a collective breath and she grins at me over her shoulder. This is the run-up to the finishing line we’ve got to get it right. I pull down on her hips and thrust upwards.

BANG! Back in I go. But wait a second… this feels different. Really different. Tighter.

‘FUCK, Sebastian!’

I withdraw quicker than the head of a terrified turtle.

‘Shit, wrong hole! Er… not shit, I mean… er… DAMN!’

…

That was the end of that. Ironically, the lube was actually purchased with that purpose in mind! I think she’d anticipated a bit more warning and preparation. The lube went back into the bedside table drawer, never to be seen again…

But not the end of the story! Now the bad bit…

[Deep breaths, Sebastian... deep breaths...-S]

We’re in the shower now. It’s been two days since the incident and I’d all but forgotten about it. Heat of the moment. Controlling your penis isn’t easy at the best of times, especially not the tip of it, 8 inches away from the nearest cluster of muscles. Water under the bridge. What happens in the bedroom stays in the bedroom. Obviously though she hadn’t forgotten…

I finish rubbing the soap into her skin and rinse her off with the shower head, with a little teasing of course. I turn around.

‘My turn. Do me!’ So she rubs shower gel into my back, my shoulders, my torso. It’s slippery and soft and warm and wet. Her hands work their way down over my stomach to my hips and then she teases me with the soap, her hands, the shower’s jets of water. I’m getting quite into it when all of a sudden, out of fucking nowhere:

POP! Finger up ass. All the way up. My last virginity, taken ruthlessly and without consent. At least she’d lubed her finger first.

‘How’d you like that, Seb?’

‘You know, Sebby, you didn’t include the photos from after the Peter Pan show…’

That was my mother, rudely barging into my room. You know, the parental ‘Can I come in?’ manoeuvre, spoken as she opens the door.

Sometimes she takes a while to get to the point, but I already knew where she was going with this one.

‘But mum, I already embarrassed myself enough with the head-in-bowl photo.’

‘Those girls obviously loved you in that doggy outfit, Seb. You have to start thinking about getting a wife, and if that involves dressing up as a dog… I’m sure Moses would turn a blind eye if it meant you could find a nice wife. One that likes doggies.’

And so, through the undeniable power of motherly coercion, I bring you the photos from after the show. Out of the doggy suit and into the emo-kitchen-down-lights that you’re probably all used to by now.

Just remember, this Sunday, that no matter how bad a situation you’re in, how unfortunate circumstances might be, even when it seems like there’s no end to your suffering or sorrow — there’s a guy with pigtails, a blacked-out eye and beard pretending to look like a dog for your benefit.

And that’s Sebby’s Sunday Sermon. Have a nice day!

This entry picks up from the end of my ‘stuck up a bell tower‘ story, one of the more foolish situations I’ve ever found myself in. I’d been rescued from the tallest point in Venice by some stumpy uniformed types that turned out to be the local police… It may not sound like it yet, but this is yet another too-much-information (TMI) story, so stick with it until the end, it delivers. If you want more, check out Lilu’s blog. And now on with the embarrassment…

The bald policemen, both with faces like a smacked bottom, frog-marched me all the way to the nearest canal where a boat with Polizei stencilled on the hull awaited my arrival. The boat’s captain gave a quick flash of the boat’s blue lights and a toot of the siren in greeting. If the boat had had a low roof, or if either of the officers could actually reach my head, they would have no doubt pushed me under it. Instead, they grunted and waited for me to climb on.

I held my head high in a manner that best befits a noble British naval officer as we puttered along the squalid, soupy canals. I become intensely reflective in times of danger or duress: I begun to wonder if the locals realise that tourists overlook how dirty and smelly their city is just because it’s so damn charming. I pondered where they were taking me and what they might do with me when we got there. I even thought about diving over the edge of the boat, but that would’ve meant leaving my camera behind.

So I’m heading to an Italian police station with nothing more than a rudimentary understanding of the language and primitive stick-men-drawing abilities. In other words, I’m stuck up an effluent-topped canal without a paddle — shit.

We pulled up alongside a nondescript brick building; it had bars across the windows, but no other hints that it might be a police station… or worse… jail…

While being lead inside I took one last look at my surroundings in case I had to describe my location over the phone to the British embassy or Jack Bauer while negotiating an escape plan. They pushed me through a dilapidated swing door that was once navy blue and into some kind of reception. My camera and phone were quickly placed in a locker and a form was placed on the table for me to sign. I reached for the pen slowly but one of the men behind me coughed and shook his head, yanking my handcuffs and pulling backwards towards a small room — surely they’re not going to question me… I don’t speak Italian! — and as if reading my thoughts, the other officer promptly appeared with an Italian-English dictionary.

Flopping the tome open at the centrefold I had a feeling these poor guys had done this before. Brits don’t have a fantastic reputation for being great tourists, mainly because of our yobbish football fans. I was about to receive the same treatment reserved for proper troublemakers — is getting stuck at the top of a major landmark really that anti-social?

“You… make… distress.” I nodded slowly and smiled inanely, hoping I came across as some kind of simple-minded pacifist. It’s at times like these I wish I didn’t have a beard, or really big eyes that have the tendency to make eye-contact for extended periods of time — ‘eyeballing’ they call it, in macho-man and law enforcement circles. The police officer tried again:

“You… inebriated?” I stopped nodding and started shaking my head very quickly. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the other policeman pulling some latex gloves out of his pocket. Oh, not drunk… drugged… The one with the dictionary nodded as his face lit up with a a tight-lipped, grim smile. “We check.” He shut the book and signalled to the other officer to lift me out of the chair, which he did, roughly.

The begloved officer pulls the chair away and pushes it into a corner. He snaps the cuff of the gloves with a thwack while the other man takes my still-cuffed hands and pulls them to the far side of the table, forcing me to lean over. I can feel but cannot see the other officer as he reaches around my waist to undo my trousers. I can feel them falling to my ankles, followed moments later by my underwear.

Looking up at the man that’s pinning my wrists to the edge of the cold metal table I try out my best pitiful whimper, a task made all the more simple by the warm, plasticky hands now groping around my buttocks. I let forth a cry as his stumpy fingers enter me with no ceremony, foreplay or lubrication. Prod, wiggle, grunt. Mamma mia! Che macello! (Don’t look that one up)

And then it’s over and he’s pulling out, I’m being uncuffed and he’s pulling his gloves off into a bin. I lay limply on the table for a few minutes until the one with the dictionary breaks the silence: ‘You… free… go, prego, prego.’ He points to the exit and looks irritably at my half-naked form. Smiling bravely and nodding, I reach down with aching arms to pull up my underwear. Thank God I’d already lost that particular virginity a few years ago, I thought to myself, my senses slowly reclaiming ownership of my body. That would’ve been a fun story to tell the kids: how I lost my anal virginity to a bald fat man — and I didn’t even know his name…

Stumbling out into street I knew I’d got off lightly. It could’ve been a lot worse. I could’ve been thrown into a jail cell with a fat, big-bossomed man called Martha that insists I call him ‘mummy’. I could’ve been deported after just 24 hours in Italy.

Most importantly: the policeman could’ve had cold hands.

Following on from the rampant, run-away success of last week’s column, I now bring you three more fresh and exciting problems for me to sink my teeth into. Only this week there’s a twist — I’ve invited the eccentric Mr. Apron to also offer his… alternative… point of view on the questions I’ve been sent this week. There’s a chance he’ll get his own column here on this blog, but let’s see how this goes first…

Dearest Sebby,

Can I ever compare to Katee Sackhoff? She’s so hot. Maybe I should just give up and hand my boyfriend over to her now. Of course I probably make better cakes than her, but I think he’d probably still be happier with her.

Please lavish me with your opinions o’ great geek,
Apollo’s Dad Is Sexier

Seb

Well the good news is that Katee — Starbuck from Battlestar Galactica — isn’t conventionally beautiful. There’s certainly something about her though — that rough, craggy exterior that only occasionally breaks open to reveal a soft, supple interior; much like an armadillo, really. By the end of the final season of BSG she also has an attractive element of mystery — what is she?! — something, let’s face it, you can probably never compete with.

My tip to you, like most style gurus, is to accentuate on your strong traits. If your hair is ruddy blonde — bleach it! Heck, even if it’s not, bleach it anyway! If there’s something about you that your boyfriend really likes, work it! If he likes the dirty, greasy, raw look — who are you to deny him that pleasure? If all else fails: the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Smother him in baked goods, spread yourself eagled on the bed, covered in nothing but crumbled pieces of meringue and Chantilly cream.

For further advice, please send me a large slab of chocolate brownie.

Apron

Dear Katee Wannabee,

I must not watch enough television– I had no idea who this bitch was.  I had to Google Images her and was disappointed to see that, even with the SafeSearch filter turned off, there were no money shots anywhere.  I disagree with Sebastian on the matter of her beauty, intrinsic or otherwise.  Am I the only one who’s noticed that her left eye is all weird?

Then again, Wannabee, I guess your boyfriend isn’t spending too much time staring at her left eye.

Can you ever compete with her?  No.  Can you bash her in the leg with a lead pipe?  Well, it worked for Tonya Harding, but I wouldn’t recommend it.  Look, seriously, all you can do is put out more.  Five, six times a day if you have to.  Sure, your boyfriend will be thinking about Katee Sackhoff each and every time, but at least you’ll be keeping him busy and off Google Image with the SafeSearch filter off.

I disagree with Seb also, (sorry, mate) that you should alter your appearance by bleaching your hair to satisfy your schmuck boyfriend but, if you do decide to do that, I think you should then shave it all off and mail it to Katee Sackhoff.  That’ll teach her to be sexy.

Feel free to mail me brownies or whatever, too.

Dear Dr Sebby!!!

How the hell do I get an audio player to work on my blog? I think it involves converting MP4 files (like I know what that is) to MP3 (which sounds slightly familiar).

Or I need to know the “location” to something? Basically I want to play 99 red balloons on my blog and I don’t know how!!!

HELP ME NOW PLEASE!!
- Distressed Blogger

[I stripped out lots of punctuation, but I felt the three exclamations and ALL CAPS had to be left in -S]

Seb

I assume you mean the, um, German classic by Nena? I’m not sure how I feel about helping you spread German propaganda, and I’m sure my counterpart Apron will have something to say about that too. Fortunately, I will see past any prejudices I might have and fulfil my Hippocratic oath.

• It sounds like you need to start by converting the MP4s to MP3 by using a program. There’s a guide on how to use it, but it looks fairly self-explanatory: drag music in, click convert, enjoy your new MP3s.
• Next, you need to upload them to the Internet. This is slightly trickier. Start by registering at DivShare and then following the prompts to upload your MP3 files. When you’re done, you should have a link across the top of your browser window — you can either use this direct link in your MP3 player of choice, or click the link, then ‘Embed/Sharing Options’, and use their MP3 player (it’s up to you).
• If you decide to use your own MP3 player (which it sounds like you already have set up?), you then place the above link (http://www.divshare.com/download/something-123.mp3) into the embed code, and voila!

(If you have no idea what ‘embed code’ I speak of, there’s a great YouTube video that’ll walk you through the entire process, if you can put up with some kind of hideous English/Indian/Chav/Something?? accent.)

Apron

Dear Distressed,

I’m so sorry to hear that you’re having issues with playing music on your blog.  What a serious bummer.

Here’s a thought: instead of trying to snazz your blog up with music to distract your visitors’ attention from the fact that you have no meaningful content, why don’t you try to focus all the energy you’ve exhausted trying to figure out how to set up an MP3 player on your blog and put some of that effort into the actual writing?!

Now there’s a novel idea, isn’t it?  A blog with words.  That people read.  If people want to hear music, they’ll open Pandora [We can't use this in Europe any more, very sad -S] in a different window and listen to music while they read your blog.  If you want to share the music you love so much with the rest of the world, make us mix tapes, you hopeless romantic, you.

Your blog is also probably rife with exciting graphics and YouTube clips and pictures of cats wearing stupid hats saying “I Can Has Cheezburger?” isn’t it?

Jesus Christ.

Monsieur Seb,

I have a bit of a tricky one for you, one that I think might not have a right answer, but I’ll give your ‘Ask Me Anything’ a shot!

I’m in love with my brother’s girlfriend, or at least I think it is love. She’s 3 years older than me, but that hasn’t changed matters. I don’t think my brother knows, but he must be at least somewhat suspicious. I guess he just trusts us enough that he hasn’t entertained the thought of his girlfriend and me flirting.

But yeah, the problem is: she also likes me. We kissed last week, in the living room! Stupid, I know, and my brother came in after we’d finished. We both had the most telling, embarrassed faces. I don’t know how long we can keep it up. Should we elope to Vegas? Haha. His girlfriend has told me she really likes me, but she’s not sure who she likes more… Aaaargh!

Help me, Sir Seb!
In Love And Confused, USA

Seb

There’s definitely no easy solution to this one, sorry. It happens to us all: we fall for the forbidden fruit, the fruit that’s all the more ripe and tasty because someone else has already picked it. It’s like someone has already certified the fruit ‘highly tasty’ and you just gotta have a bite. It’s more commonly seen amongst adults as the ‘wedding ring’ syndrome — married men especially get chased a lot by women seeking a nice man!

Your situation is all the more complicated because it sounds like you’re still living at home, so your brother’s girlfriend is always about the place — no doubt you’ve caught her in pyjamas or other revealing clothing too…?

But to the resolution: first, you should try and forget all about her. Your brother got there first and she says she likes him. That’s the obvious solution. Without knowing the details of your brother’s relationship, it’s hard to say whether you should chase or let go of the girl — if she’s not happy with your brother, or your brother mistreats her… perhaps it’s worth chasing? You’re both young, and if you really love her, go for it! Unless this girl is the love of his life, of course, in which case, forget it.

No matter which route you take, you will have to talk to your brother sooner or later — preferably before he actually catches you doing something dishonourable, so you should probably start with that!

Apron

Dear In Love (Though Probably Not),

I’d love to know how old you are.  From the tone of your letter, I’m guessing you’re fourteen.  Son, you have to be old enough to drive before you can “elope to Vegas” and then you have to be old enough to get married.  As far as I know, the only people in America who can get married at 14 are the Amish, and they have enough problems.

Sebastian, I can’t believe you’re advising this kid to talk to his brother about this– what’s wrong with you? [Sorry, call it my 'inner belief in all things good and proper'... -S] First of all, Americans don’t “talk” to each other, about anything.  They text each other.  Second of all, this kid’s older brother is probably some square-jawed, Neanderthal, knuckle-dragging high school senior who will bury his hockey stick inside this kid’s head at the mere mention that he’s got the hots for his girlfriend.

I’ll bet she is pretty fucking hot, though, isn’t she?  Tank-tops, little shorts all rolled up at the waist, too, I’ll bet.  Mmmmm…

Which brings me quite neatly to the solution to your little problem: it’s this crazy new thing all the teens are doing these days.  It’s called: masturbation.  See, friend, you don’t have to fuck every chick you think is attractive, especially the one who happens to be attached to your brother’s midsection.  You think she’s hot?  Great.  Jerk off while thinking about her.

Problem solved.

P.S. Don’t you love how Sebastian and his fellow Brits write “dishonourable” and “pyjamas?”  Cute!

This is a story about young love.

Young, embarrassing, sticky love.

Love that we thought safely hidden by the shadowy embrace of a moonless night. How wrong we were…

(An old photo of mine, taken during a blue moon)

You probably know, if you watch the news or have a friend that rejoices in telling you useless, geeky facts, there’s a very big meteor shower occurring right now: The Perseids! If you get a chance, go outside and look for them. It’ll peak at around 100 shooting stars per hour (though by the time you read this, they’ll probably have passed — so do it next year!)

(For more TMI this Thursday, hit up Lilu’s blog!)

This story takes place almost ten years ago, in August, during the Perseid meteor shower. I was 18 and drunk and dizzy with the affections of a certain girl. She was 15 and perky. And lavishing me with lingering looks and touches. It was only a matter of time before things got out of hand.

We barbecued and she laughed at my little jokes. We strolled at dusk through beautifully-lit woodland and she walked beside me, catching my eye and smiling. And when the night’s festivities were finally through and we settled down on the castle’s lawn to rest and sleep, she lay very close to me.

By most measures we had a romantic night that could only lead in one possible, carnal direction… right?

Wrong.

I failed to tell you that this was a party. We were 20 friends having the night of our lives.

I failed to tell you that she was also in a relationship. With my cousin.

But I was young and horny… and she was even younger and even hornier… and you know how I have a thing for pretty young girls…

So there we are, under a blanket, surrounded by a big group of our friends.

We’re all looking to the heavens and counting shooting stars. Occasionally someone tries the classic: ‘There! Over there!’ which of course, by the time you’ve looked, it’s gone. Minutes pass, meteors perish with a dazzle and our chatter slowly dies down as the magic becomes mundane. Sleep begins to take hold when her hands suddenly fine mine.

A firm grip and a meaningful, deliberate squeeze that speaks much more than a spoken word ever could.

My fingers trace teasing, tantalising designs on her palm and wrist.

Her body moves fractionally closer but the tiny increase in body temperature is palpable.

My fingers continue their gentle slide along the smooth underside of her arm.

Her breath warms the side of my neck and then, as my fingers lightly tickle her she shudders, her head dropping to my collar bone.

My hand moves from her shoulder and up her neck, under her ear and she bites me, she bites my neck hard.

My whimpering is only just audible but of course I look around, nervous that we’re being watched, that someone might’ve spotted us — but no, everyone seems to be asleep or looking at the meteor shower. Her bite has become a soft kiss and yet again I can feel her hot breath on my neck. She shakes — with nerves? — as my hands encircle her waist and pull her closer, my concern for eavesdroppers and voyeurs diminishing by the second.

Her body pushes closer and I can feel just how hot she is. She squirms as my fingers tease her waist and hips. With a hard kiss on the lips I smother a moan as my arm and hand and fingertips slide yet further.

Craving her flesh I hastily pull down my pants and undress her with my spare hand until she’s almost naked; bare enough that neither of us feel restricted. My fingers then find their mark and she rolls on top of me, her body convulsing, her hips grinding against mine.

This was a stupid move for an obvious reason: I’m fairly certain our foreplay had been heard already but our friends, in a moment of true Britishness, had decided to ignore it. But that wasn’t all. When I’d rolled onto my back there’d been a quiet click, a terse snap. Our small and sweaty under-blanket world was instantly illuminated in blinding white light. Someone had brought a huge torch, just in case of emergencies.

Those that were still watching the meteors turned to look. Those asleep were woken by the kerfuffle. In a truly Austin Powers moment they all saw our mid-thrust silhouette. There were screams from the girls and cheers from the boys.

To this day, I’m told that my silhouette was very generous.

This is a short story from a trip to America. Some of you might know which girl/family this relates to, but do try to keep it to yourself. As always, more TMI stories are available on Lilu’s blog!

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In essence, I got under the short skirt and into the itty-bitty panties of a cheerleader; a blonde-American baton-twirling pompom-smooshing cheerleader. She looked a lot like Hayden Panettiere — but this was before Heroes, so at the time I simply thought her beautiful and enthusiastic with a face-illuminating and crotch-tingling smile. Rarely does a night go by when I don’t think of her, and of how jealous other men must be of me. They can only fantasise about some of the things I’ve done to alluring, sweet-tasting girls. But I’ve been there. And in the case of this cutie, multiple times. I never thought I would be that guy, but now that it’s obvious what I’ve become, I suppose I ought to embrace it. But back to Heroes: I wouldn’t be surprised if Claire, the world-saving cheerleader, was based on this girl; perhaps the writer or producer had spied from the gridiron’s sidelines this girl in action. I would merely raise an eyebrow if in actuality it turned out Peter Petrelli was based on me. Or Sylar, as the case may be.

Anyway… where was I… ah yes, somewhere in middle America…

We’d done it with the lights out — she was young, shy — and then, later, with the lights on. Pink, luminous, fresh skin. She glowed.

Frontways, backways, sideways, she was insatiable! This was back when I was younger. I don’t know how I would keep up if I were to try again today. I hope to God that she was not my last cheerleader though.

Outside, against a tree, in just her short red skirt. The tree’s rough bark left markings on her back that later she made me kiss; I was only too happy to comply. I love soft skin.

The baton had been put to good use, each strike and every thrust only serving to make me feel more like the alpha male I must surely be. What more fitting title could be awarded to a man that has ravaged a beautiful cheerleader?

Finally, with her skirt tossed to the floor, the baton thrown into a corner and her naked and exhausted body curled up beside me, I looked at the only unsullied object that still lay unused on the bed.

I gently ran my fingers through the soft strands of the pompom. Silky, cool to the touch.

I looked down; still hard.

Back my eyes strayed to the fluffy red poof.

Why not…

It’s not like she’ll ever know…

I grabbed both red puffs and did my worst. Up, over, under and down between.

It was surprisingly nice and one hell of a sensory overload. Rustle rustle, followed by frantic fluffle. Speeding up and eyes shut, I can’t even begin to repeat here what was on my mind that afternoon. But I had made too much noise! She started to stir… but it was too late to stop. I hoped if I was quick I might finish before she woke.

But I wasn’t fast enough and things very quickly got messy.

She sat up and quickly glanced at my euphoric face and then back down. She gasped and instinctively reached out to grab her beloved red pompom. But of course it was sticky. And of course she then flung it away into the corner of the room. And then of course, knowing my luck, there was the yelp… of a cat! Did I mention she had a cat? A long-haired cat with a sticky pompom now stuck to its face.

The cat ran out of the room and down the stairs with a wet, burbling hiss.

The longest pause followed, the cheerleader and I petrified with anticipation at what was surely about to occur.

A shriek! An angry ascent! A disgusting, twisted grin on my face as realisation dawns on me. Her mother steps through the doorway holding a very sticky cat out towards me.

‘Is this yours?’

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–

As I write this I’m tired. I’m just back from a family meet-up in London. I didn’t have enough sleep or coffee for the barrage of intimate and deeply-probing questions that septuagenarian Jewish females pitched at me over a four-hour period.

Not only is it the number of questions but the ferocity and varied intensity at which they are delivered. Think of them like baseball pitches: high, low; fast, slow; straight and curved — you need to be able to hit them all! Perhaps the key to surviving such a get-together is the ability to spot the same question but posed ever so slightly differently: Seb, what happened to that last girl, she was lovely is equivalent to What’s that girl’s name again? The one you dumped. Ah, yes, Alice? I hear she’s doing well now. Got her own business! which is the same as Seb, we’re all starting to wonder if you’re gay. You’re not gay are you? You better not be gay, you schmuck, I want grandchildren!

The following tips will help you with all kinds of family get-together, shindig or party. They may even help you with… a reunion; God have mercy on you! Don’t give up if you’re not a Jew — while Jewish relatives are undoubtedly the worst, that just means I’m able to give you even better tips. I’ve been torn to pieces so that you don’t have to!

1. Develop a benign smile

A good tip for almost every social encounter, a benign smile can see you through all but the worst and most embarrassing of situations. With a slight muscle twitch a benign smile can become an apologetic grin, or a toothy laugh as the old fogie delivers yet another awful anecdote from before the War. The reason this works is simple: when a relative isn’t asking you a deeply personal question, they don’t really expect you to talk. It’s your job to listen and look attentive. For bonus points: have a slice of the aforementioned ancestor’s cake at hand — occasionally eat a piece and make appreciative grunts as she talks to you, even if it tastes like crap.

2. Craft an air-tight cover story

Interrogation by persistent family members can be considerably worse than any and all forms employed both today and historically by international security agencies. You thought waterboarding was bad? Try being jabbed in the ribs with a 2-inch hard-lacquered fingernail. Repeatedly.

Thus, it’s important to have a cover story. Depending on your family or culture, you might want to flesh out particular aspects, but in general you must know the following two categories in great detail:

• Your job. You either have a job or you have very good prospects for a job. You are not sitting at home playing video games. You are not at university getting drunk and forgetting your own name every night.
• Your partner. Whether you have a boyfriend or girlfriend, for the sake of family get-togethers, you have a partner. Take a moment to flesh him or her out. Do they have a good job? Are they from a good (and Jewish, oy vey) family? The easiest solution here is to actually get a boyfriend or girlfriend. Never, ever admit to being single. For the sake of argument, a drunken kiss and fondle does count as a prospective relationship.

3. Appreciate the food, even if it tastes like refried week-old fish

Repeat after me: ‘Mmmm! That’s great! Did you put cinnamon in; or is that ginger? Either way it’s terrrrific!’

The only risk with such positive-reinforcement is that they might actually make it again. A fate worse than death. Hm, maybe you should just tell her that it tastes bad — cruel to be kind. But the point is: if you like the food, say so! When women get to a certain age, there isn’t much more to life than visiting the post office, writing letters or making food. Make your ancestor feel loved with a heart-felt ‘mmmm!’

4. Learn the ancestral language — Yiddish, Ebonics, German, whatever

At least in Jewish circles, a few choice phrases can propel you from ‘that runty kid with no chance of finding a nice wife’ all the way to ‘our favourite Sebby who is always given the first slice of cake’. A mazel tov here, a schnoz there and you’re well on your way to becoming the Favoured One. I can’t speak authoritatively for other backgrounds/cultures, but very few families are actually ‘old’ — go back a few generations and it’s almost guaranteed that some of your ancestors were immigrants — so the same trick is likely to work with most languages!

Of course, if you can trace both sides of your family back ten generations without leaving the country, then you’ve probably already gone to finishing school, learnt how to play polo and how to order man servants about — this guide probably isn’t of much use to you.

5. Ascertain your common ancestors and/or history

Nothing encourages love and camaraderie as quickly or firmly as locating a common ancestry! Perhaps you’re talking to a cute third-cousin-twice-removed (totally legal, at least here in the UK) and then you wow her by revealing that your parents and hers used to play naked in a sandpit together, back in 1965. You’ve as good as scored!

With younger relatives — the generation below — you can become good friends very quickly by warning them of what to expect when they get older. Tell a kid how to win the affections of his nasty, doddery grandmother and he’ll be eternally grateful.

With older relatives  it’s even easier as they’re so soppy and sentimental — trace their history back until you have a common ancestor, or ancestors that were siblings. Perhaps they were in Auschwitz together? Or worked at the same cotton farm? Finding such common ground is vital to forming strong familial bonds! And might even score you a sentence or two in their final will and testament!

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Any similarities to actual members of my family either living or deceased are purely coincidental. This list is entirely fictitious and does not represent my actual views of my family meet-ups which are, incidentally, pure joy. Please do not stop bringing your lovely smoked salmon lemon drizzle cake to parties, grandma.

First there was the pirate special.

And then… the animal cosplay special.

But now, ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Alien Special. All 25 seconds of it.

(If you can’t see the video, you’ll need to view it on my blog!)

Yup. My whole life was a build-up to those 25 seconds of fame. A six-month training regime. Three months of method acting. Private tuition with Andy Serkis.

You saw the still photo, but as it turned out… someone had captured some damn video footage of the pale, gangly, hideous creature that is… me.

You have to admit that the grunting guttural sounds are pretty awesome though. If you must know, it’s the scene from Men In Black…

Anyway… other than the awesome video, this Monday (if you are reading this on my blog) you get an overhauled side bar with some new favourite choices entries thrown in! Then the Index of Topics has been updated, which is where you want to go for ‘interesting’ or ‘deep and meaningful’ entries. I also updated the Travel Stories section with entries from the Faroe Islands.

And today’s ‘52 Weeks‘ is out later in the afternoon (UK time), whenever my partner in crime turns up… (if you haven’t subscribed yet, you should! With Autumn here, I can assure you there will be some beautiful photos.)