I was rubbing and scrubbing away at my vast, expansive body. I’m in that semi-catatonic just-awake state that I’m sure you’ve all experienced; you know, when you wake up up after just 4 hours sleep, and while the idea of going back to sleep sounds lovely, you have to be somewhere, or do something.

So there you are, teetering, only just standing upright under the jets of water. You can feel sensation slowly returning to your feet and your hands. You’re having a glorious moment; you’re coming alive!

It’s around this point, the point where I’ve become sentient yet again, that my brain kicks in. I slowly come to realise that, yet again, I am doing one of the most boring things in the world. Ever. Showering (and shaving!) are probably the two things I despise most in this world. Ethnic cleansing? Pretty bad. AIDS? Awful, I agree. But being obligated to shower and shave 300 or more times each and every fucking year is akin to having your testicles injected with fish paste and dangled in a hungry pool of piranhas.

I’m sorry, I just can’t even begin to imagine what showering will be like for me in 60 years. ‘Oh, hello there Mr Leg, are you enjoying this as much as me? We’ve only done this twenty thousand times before…’ I really and sincerely hope someone will have invented some kind of ultrasonic cleaning device shakes the dirt from me while I sit here in front of my computers. Contemplating the alternative, a life resplendent with 20 minute bouts of terminal boredom, my brow furrows as I fathom just how many days I will have spent showering, by the time I’m 80. I drop the soap.

It takes about 15-20 minutes a day to shower and shave (a conservative estimate — I’m huge, remember, it takes time to get into all those nooks and crannies), if you multiply that out, assuming 300 showers a year, that’s 100 hours. That’s over 4 days a year I spend doing basic personal hygiene. If you assume you’ve showered since you were 5, by the time you are 80 you will have spent 308 days showering and shaving. ALMOST A GODS DAMN YEAR OF YOUR LIFE.

So, I’ve become sentient and self-aware, and I’m thinking: Shit, I’m showering… yet again… isn’t this fun. And then I thought to myself: What if I was a girl? I would have to exfoliate, and body scrub, and depillate. I’d probably be spending 30, 40, 50 minutes a day making myself presentable — every frackin’ day!  If a woman spends twice as much time as a man making herself look pretty, she’ll probably have spent 2 years of her life in the bathroom, by the time she’s 80. 2 years. Sweet Moses.

Can someone please think of a way to remove this incessant, never-ending drivel from our lives?

Anyway, I started thinking about women, in the shower. No, this isn’t leading where you think it is — scrub your mind! No, I was washing my ample bosoms when I suddenly thought: Why do men have nipples? I mean, I’m not complaining, obviously — you have to love it when a girl goes to town on your nipples — but really, why do we have them? Just for sexual gratification? To provide a way for evil kids to bully you? (’nipple/titty-twisting’ occurred at your school too, right?)

I kind of knew the answer already, but still I did a little research. It’s the standard stuff — we all start off as girls, until testosterone kicks in and we sprout a penis and our ovaries become testicles. Nipples are there from before we start generating testosterone, so we get lumped with them for the rest of our lives. I did come across one fairly-funny thing though — male breasts can still make milk. If we get a jolt of oestrogen, our mammary glands can become functional! We could breast feed!

I’ll end this now, before some wise-ass feminist suggests men should stay at home and look after the babies, while the mother goes out to make money, and sleep with the secretary.

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?’

These are my legs, Jesus sandals and shorts.
Sorry for opening with such a picture, it’s unforgivable. But all will become clear as you read on…

Being a man, body hair, schlong and all, there are some things that do not come naturally. Remembering anniversaries. Washing my hands after using the bathroom. And organisation, planning. Lists, I hate lists. I might come across as a deliberate, slightly-gay, well-measured guy that organises his books and DVDs alphabetically, and makes sure everything is just so, but I assure you that isn’t the case. There are a few things that I’m good at: photography for one, I’m perfectionist in that regard. Video games? I’m down-right pro at video games. Rational thought too: if you want someone to make the right choice at the right moment, I’m your man.

But these are living-in-the-moment affairs. It’s the long, over-arching planning that I suck at. If the devil is in the details, I’m Jesus. I don’t keep a diary or even a wall calendar marked with important dates. The only birthdays I usually remember are my parents’. When someone asks me if I’m available next weekend I shrug non-committally, say ’sure!’ and pray no one else has requested my presence elsewhere (I don’t have many friends so I’m usually safe in this department…) In short, I’m a man and I require a good woman to do my thinking and planning for me. Currently this is a role fulfilled by my mother, but I’m sure there’ll be a lucky wife eventually…

[If you can't deal with vivid 'male bits' imagery, the next bit is probably not for you. If you do like stories of this kind, go check out Lilu's blog!]

Anyway, to cut to the chase: I’m the kind of guy that packs his bags only a few hours before he leaves. And I always forget something. I’m fairly experienced at the whole bag-packing thing so I rarely forget anything important — I’ve only forgotten my mobile phone charger once and I’ve never left my passport at home! — but on more than one occasion I have forgotten to pack… underwear. That’s right, I spent 12 days in Turkey, in 40-degree (104F) heat with just a single pair of boxer shorts. (Don’t worry, I had two pairs of socks, my hygiene wasn’t that bad…)

I’m going to use the same picture so you can look at them again but with this new information in mind!

(See those crinkles? They are well worn. They say ‘kiss’ all over them, if you can’t make it out. And those are red lips printed on.)

You’ve probably heard about the ‘back to front’ and ‘inside out’ techniques of odor-mitigation and boxer freshness longevity (or more simply ‘the underpant inversion method’ as I like to call it). You’ve probably seen it joked about in films like American Pie or Van Wilder. You probably laughed and said ‘Eww! Gross! No Way!’

What you didn’t know is that men actually do it.

I know, it’s too disgusting to contemplate, but men actually wear the same underwear for days or even weeks at a time! With creative folding, those sprays that people use to remove the lingering smell of cigarette smoke and a radiator or hair dryer, a man can stretch out one pair of boxers an awfully long time.

In my case, on no less than three different holidays, I’ve taken only one pair of boxer shorts.

I wore them while clambering over the ancient ruins of Thermessos in Turkey. It’s safe to say I perspired rather heavily in the process. Six days later I was still wearing them when I went for a hot-air balloon ride with five other people — they kept throwing odd glances in my direction (which is not unusual) but instead of staring as they usually do, they grimaced and pinched the bridge of their nose, a look of revulsion spreading across their face.

Then in Prague, through 3 days of drunken debauchery and sweaty hiking around the city, I wore the very same boxers. I had washed them since Turkey though.

Finally, during a 4-day LAN Party, I forgot to bring spare underwear. Four days of sitting on my ass, four days of no showers. In the middle of summer and surrounded by 1000 other gamers and computers.

I had to use rubbing alcohol and a chisel to prise them from my skanky, geeky legs. I even had to get my mother to come and help. What can I say, we’re close.

Unbeknownst to the horde of Americans that have been staying at my house over the past two weeks, I’ve actually been chronicling the state of the downstairs shower.

Boys are probably well aware of ‘Female Toiletry Multiplication Syndrome’ (FTMS) where, magically, one shampoo bottle magically divides itself, over night, into two bottles the next day. This process continues until, eventually, your entire shower is full of damn bottles. Everywhere you put your foot: bottle! And that’s if you’re lucky. When the razors and loofahs start dividing you’re in trouble…

Obviously, with six girls under one roof, this problem is exacerbated. Not only do you have shampoo bottles, there’s conditioner. And exfoliators. Defoliators! (Is that even a word?)  Razors, lotions, sponges… and even some shower gel!! But, of course, being the sensible girls that they are, they shared just one shower gel.

If only they’d shared the other products too…

A timelapse sequence from the past eleven days now follows.

Shower gel, shampoo and conditioner. Sensible.

More bottles of the same stuff? WHY?!

Obviously, after three days, some shaving needs to occur.

Another girl realises it’s time to shave! I wonder if it’s like ‘pack mentality’ — one shaves and they all shave.

Oh… my… God. The pink sponge. I thought I’d hit the mother lode when this beauty turned up. It made all the waiting worthwhile.

Two remaining girls seem to have remember that their legs are probably getting a bit hairy by now. Also, some pretty blue bottle whose contents I enver did ascertain…

Someone’s obviously had a bit of a tidy-up. A few more bottles arrive. Exfoliator maybe? Not sure.

MORE bottles. Now some baby oil in the bottom right? Or baby shampoo? And some hair treatment stuff.

Out of frickin’ NOWHERE another razor! Wait, no, three more razors. Someone obviously likes — or, by this stage, needs — a sharp blade.

Like gremlins they are… multiplying… By this stage, it was very hard to actually take a shower. I’m not a small guy, and finding somewhere to put my feet was a challenge.

…

And the worst bit is that I only just realised that one of the girls has finished my shampoo. Women! Gotta love ‘em… right…?

[Thursday. Too much information. But really, this one's very easy going. The more active your imagination, the better this one will be. Hit up Lilu's blog for more embarrassing tales!]

You probably don’t know this but… I wear glasses. But due to a firm belief that I look a lot more photogenic without glasses, I always remove them for photos.

In fact, the only photo that features me in glasses (other than the obviously-posed Ask Me Anything knitting photo!) is the famous ‘Messiah reawakens’ scene, which depicts the second coming of Christ in the form of a hairy, bespectacled nerd, in the Ritz-Carlton, Los Angeles:

This story, as you’ve now guessed, is about my glasses. It’s going to move quickly, so make sure you keep up!

Yes, before you ask, glasses are irritating. Yes, I have to push them up regularly like Hiro in Heroes. No, I can’t do extreme sports like bungee jumping or white-water rafting with a pair of glasses.

Get contact lenses, Seb!

No! Why? Because of my party trick.

Party tricks are special things that are usually discovered when paralytically inebriated — and often at a party. It was after a particularly wild party that I discovered this one…

There we were, tearing clothes off each other. We’re both down to our underwear. I’m standing there, tall, proud, erect; socks, boxers and… glasses!

‘Take them off baby!’

‘In a moment sweetcheeks, I gotta see what you look like… if I take them off now you’ll just be a big blur…’

She obviously disagreed with my logic — perhaps she was afraid of what I might see? — and begun wildly grasping for my glasses.

Before I know it, she’s knocked them from my nose! ‘You drunken bit–’ I look down. There, balanced perfectly in mid-air, are my glasses.

It looked like one of those bad disguise kits.

And that’s how I discovered that particular party trick.

You’re probably thinking that, while it’s kinda neat, it’s not really that much of a trick. In fact, other than amongst a crowd of drunken buffoons, it’s an entirely useless party trick (unless you need a thinly-veiled excuse to whip it out, to impress the girls, of course).

And I would’ve agreed with you! Until last week…

There I was, peeing my customary torrent of… pee.

If you don’t already know: I hate peeing. I hate shaving. I hate showering. I hate spending time doing useless crap.

So of course my mind wanders to more interesting things, like astrophysics, or girls. I was pondering the finer points of female genitalia when I rubbed at my eyes and accidentally knocked the glasses from my nose.

Nooooooo!!

My hands reacted a lot faster than I thought humanly possible. A little too fast. Wet, warm, slightly-sticky hands. Ugh.

But I needn’t have worried. My glasses were safe and sound, perched upon my penis.

I’m not sure why I want to tell you this story. I don’t even know if it counts as ‘too much information’. I mean, it involves a bunch of teenagers being thrown into the communal showers at school, but I don’t know if that itself is enough. The real reason I want to tell you this story is because it’s the last time I played sports. Sure, I still hit a ball around occasionally, and I still play a little table tennis, but this story is the reason I never took part in organised sports at school after the age of 14.

Like most bad experiences at schools the world over, throughout history, it involved a bad teacher. Oh, and it included bullies too. Bad teachers and bullies, the stuff of collective, pubescent nightmare.

You can probably tell this isn’t going to be a happy story, further adding to my concern that this isn’t really TMI fodder — head on over to Lilu’s blog if you want happier fare. But I assure you, before this story is out, you’re going to feel like I’ve told you too much.

We always played sports in the winter. I don’t know why. It was always damn cold and damn wet. There’s no damp like English damp, it chills right to the bone. It actually all began when I turned up to football practice in some warmer sweatpants/sports trousers — you know, the flannel/fleecy kind. I figured if we were going to run around like retards, I’d at least like to keep some sensation in my legs. There’s nothing like having a hard, cold football kicked into your bare legs, by the way. The brief cessation of all feeling followed by the flooding return of stinging pain as your numb, cold thighs register the impact. That’s why I wanted to wear more than shorts. Protection… safety… you know, normal human urges.

But my teacher wasn’t a normal human being. He was pretty young — early 20s maybe — and a complete, draconian dick. He was a football nut — as in the kind of person that actually thrives on running around in the cold and kicking a ball — and as such tried to impose his own ludicrous view of the world upon us poor teenagers. He didn’t like that I wasn’t wearing shorts. In fact, shorts were the uniform in his sports lessons.

“Take them off.”

“But I don’t have any shorts with me.”

“Take them off!”

And so I played football in my underwear. It was as shit and as painful as you can imagine, and about twice as cold.

I wore those tiny sportsshorts after that and made do with bruised, stinging thighs. It was marginally better than being told to strip down to underwear in front of my friends.

I guess this was probably when my rebellious streak really kicked in. Or wait, not rebellious… sane streak. Some of my other friends also kicked up a fuss, but they all eventually fell into line under this sports teacher (though ‘teacher’ is too generous. He was basically a thug with a whistle.) I could never quite kick the idea that running around in a field, in the cold, in the rain, in the fucking sleet, with tiny shorts on… well, it always felt a bit stupid. Like the crazy ideology of a mad man: Ja! These children will run in ze cold! In tiny shorts and vests! Zis will make them into men! – or something like that.

And then there were the showers. My school wasn’t a very classy affair. The changing room was this brutally cold, hard room with seemingly no heating. It had a huge door that led outside to the sports field, a door into the school itself, and a communal shower in the corner.

Showering was part of the sports ritual. According to our tyrant of a teacher anyway. Everyone stripping down and jumping into the shower for a good ol’… I don’t know. Tussle? Convivial soapy sponge-down? Fuck, I haven’t thought about these memories in 10 years, but we were forced to shower together.

Cold water too. Sometimes we got warm water, sometimes we didn’t. Mostly it was ice cold. The jocks — there were a few — jumped in first. The rest of us, the cautious dissenters, usually waited until we were forced to undress and waddle protectively into a corner of the shower. I think it was worse than it should’ve been because I was so young, some two years younger than most of the other boys. It’s not so weird for a 14-year-old to question whether he wants to jump into a communal shower with some ‘big’ 16-year-olds, right? This wasn’t the only chain of incidents that triggered my self-esteem issues, but it played a big part.

The whole showering thing happened three times until I finally stopped turning up to sports classes. I would actually hide somewhere in the school when it was time for sports. The teacher rounded me up a few times, frog-marching me to the football field, before finally giving up on me. I guess I wasn’t destined to be one of those idiots that liked running around in the cold.

Can you guess where I usually hid? The computer room. And that was that.

This week sees the continuation of my ‘Things you’ve always wanted to know about men but were too afraid to ask’ series of videos. I’m still trying to come up with a shorter and punchier title — if anyone can come up with anything, let me know; I’ll credit you!

After unearthing the true reason behind why men pick their nose, I now turn my attention to a wholly more juicy subject — showering. More specifically, why some men take a really long time in the shower. Now, you can probably all guess, now that I’ve brought it up, but watch the video and hear it right from the horse’s mouth. I might even surprise you with some of the things that men get up to in the shower — and of course, for the sake of journalistic integrity, I actually recorded the video while standing in the shower.

I know, now that I’ve taken my clothes off — for Lilu’s TMI Thursday, no less — you think I’ve gone and jumped the shark — but not so! Just you wait; there’s a lot more weird stuff that men get up to.

Incidentally, the video was entirely unscripted, and all in one take. I dropped my towel, got into the shower and… this is what came out. I have no idea why I started singing, or where the penis-play ‘outro’ came from. I must be a little crazy in the head.