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…?

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?’

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Caption contest!

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