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How Repulsive are You? Redux

Started by Ronnie the Raincoat, March 16, 2011, 09:06:32 PM

Previous topic - Next topic

Ronnie the Raincoat

Because the last thread was wonderful, here's a new thread to cower in its shadows. 

I sleepwalk.  Especially after a few drinks and because I take a sleeping medication.  Mixing the two means I go wandering at night.

So, this was about two years ago. It was a jolly night- two of my friends were staying with me and my boyfriend. The two friends: one is so prim and repressed that she resembles a Victorian wife in a period drama. She speaks in that way, too, with a very posh English accent. She also has alopecia, and wears a (lovely) wig. Her boyfriend is chronically shy, a mouse of a man, practically silent at all times.

We had dinner and lovely amounts of alcohol. To bed! Lots of yawning. We put the inflatable mattress on the living room floor and bid them goodnight.

The next part of this was recounted to me by my boyfriend, who was watching from the door way, hiding his glorious morning erection with a pillow.

Apparently, stark bollock naked, I woke up from bed and wandered into the living room. I stepped over my sleeping friends, my foot pulling the wig from my friend's head as I did so. They woke up and watched me as I obliviously got down on all fours in the corner of the room and proceeded to piss myself. Apparently I craned my neck backwards to watch the extremely long, very noisy stream of wee as I did so.

As I got up and walked away from my damp patch, I stepped back over the mattress, onto the bloke friend's head. He got a fantastic view of my vagina. I was at least in the right mind to say, "Sorry", to which he quietly responded, "It's okay".

Then I was gently guided back to bed.

I very unsurprisingly haven't seen those friends since.

The next thing is only repulsive if you think eating your own menstrual blood is disgusting.

A few weeks ago, my boyfriend burst into the bedroom, waking me up from a (somewhat drugged due to insomnia) sleep.

"THERE'S A FUCKING MOUSE ON THE SOFA!" he bellowed. He is very phobic of such things. Great with spiders and cockroaches, but shits it when Mickey comes to visit.

I was in no state to even understand him so made a noise and turned around to sleep.

"Come and get the mouse", he beseeched. "The cats are batting it around!", but I slept on. I don't like mice either anyway, especially not dead ones.

So, he posted on Facebook, like a wuss-"There's a dead mouse on the sofa. I'm too scared to touch it. I will give you £allmymoney if you come and get rid of it for me".

My fetching 4ft 10" female friend happened to be in the area. She valiantly stepped up to the challenge.

About two hours later, somewhat more lucid, I awoke. My boyfriend came into the bedroom.

"What happened to the mouse?" I asked.

He glanced down sheepishly.

"Er..."

And then he explained that my friend had come, approached the chair with caution and then turned to him and said,

"Robert, it's a used tampon".

I neglected to tell him the tampon was there because in my sleepwalking state, I had sleepily wandered into the sitting room, pulled it out with the intention of flushing it away, then instead sat on the sofa, chewed on the end until it was frayed, then gone back to bed.

He needs his eyes tested.

So, share with me!  Used tampons don't taste all that bad, by the way.  Not that I remember, anyway.

Depressed Beyond Tables


Small Man Big Horse

That second story is just beautiful. Well, in a bizarrely strange way, anyhow.

Bar tales I've told before, I think the worst thing I've ever done is accidentally cum over my Mum's favourite fleece. She was out for the evening, and the only computer in the house was in her room, so I decided to surf around youporn and other such sites. Unfortunately I got rather over excited, and the jism spurted over my shoulder and on to the fleece which was hanging by the door. Unfortunately at that very moment she came home early, I just about managed to get dressed and give the fleece the briefest rub with some toilet paper, but there was still a very obvious damp patch on it.

33 I was. Genuinely.

El Unicornio, mang

A few things which I ate when I was a kid: a bite of my own shit, my own piss, grit, and a wasp cocoon

This might explain why I'm kind of fussy about what I eat now

Kishi the Bad Lampshade

I did used to quite happily masturbate in front of people, but that was more childhood ignorance than active repulsiveness.

Shoulders?-Stomach!

Quote from: El Unicornio, mang on March 16, 2011, 09:23:49 PM
A few things which I ate when I was a kid: a bite of my own shit, my own piss, grit, and a wasp cocoon

This might explain why I'm kind of fussy about what I eat now

You ate your own piss? That's extra repulsive if your piss was a solid.

Lee Van Cleef

All of a sudden I feel a bit better about myself.

Brunette Romana 2

This relates to your second post, Ronnie, and some people won't think it's repulsive at all. I've found people I've spoken to about this to be utterly divided over how disgusting this is....

So, I've just started using a Mooncup, which is, for those of you unaware of such things, a small silicone cup which you place in your vagina during menstruation to collect the menstrual blood. You can then empty it regularly, clean and replace it; thus avoiding the expense/environmental unsoundness of tampons/pads etc.

It's amazing how many people find this whole concept a bit icky however; particularly people who have no problem with the idea of a piece of cotton soaking up the blood.  I myself avoided them up to now; mostly because of the yoghurt weaving reputation they have; which has more to do with my prejudices than any sense of ickyness.

Mooncups then: repulsive?

eluc55

My story's not disgusting, just moderately embarrassing, I guess.

When I was a wee nipper, my brother and I used to have baths together, like many children pre-puberty. It was all very innocent. We'd jolly about, splashing water everywhere, and generally cavorting gaily.

I'm three years older than him, and so when I started getting erections (I guess I was 6-7 years old) we invented a bathtime game whereby I would lie flat on my back pretending to be a speedboat, and he would sit on my legs, and roughly manipulate my stiff cock like a little gear stick, causing me to slide about the bath, and imagining we were racing down a river on a glorious sunny day.

Oh, and we also had another game, where I would press my eyes against his bumcheeks and "look into the future".... with questionable success, I might add.

Shoulders?-Stomach!

Quote
Mooncups then: repulsive?

I prefer mopping up menstrual discharge with a spiffing bespoke gleetingzcaaaaard.

Small Man Big Horse

Quote from: eluc55 on March 16, 2011, 10:29:38 PM
I'm three years older than him, and so when I started getting erections (I guess I was 6-7 years old) we invented a bathtime game whereby I would lie flat on my back pretending to be a speedboat, and he would sit on my legs, and roughly manipulate my stiff cock like a little gear stick, causing me to slide about the bath, and imagining we were racing down a river on a glorious sunny day.

That's given me the biggest laugh of my day, thank you for that!

Kishi the Bad Lampshade

It's been many months - many moon cycles, if you will - but I'm so glad that frank discussion of the Mooncup Debate is back on CaB.

rudi

Quote from: Kishi the Bad Lampshade on March 16, 2011, 10:42:28 PM
It's been many months - many moon cycles, if you will - but I'm so glad that frank discussion of the Mooncup Debate is back on CaB.

I like to squirt a bit of frothy cream (quiet at the back) on top before serving.

vrailaine

Quote from: eluc55 on March 16, 2011, 10:29:38 PM
My story's not disgusting, just moderately embarrassing, I guess.

When I was a wee nipper, my brother and I used to have baths together, like many children pre-puberty. It was all very innocent. We'd jolly about, splashing water everywhere, and generally cavorting gaily.

I'm three years older than him, and so when I started getting erections (I guess I was 6-7 years old) we invented a bathtime game whereby I would lie flat on my back pretending to be a speedboat, and he would sit on my legs, and roughly manipulate my stiff cock like a little gear stick, causing me to slide about the bath, and imagining we were racing down a river on a glorious sunny day.

Oh, and we also had another game, where I would press my eyes against his bumcheeks and "look into the future".... with questionable success, I might add.
6-7? Jesus, I've no clue when I started but that sounds super young. Does he still remember this?


I've no clue whether I'm relieved that I've nothing worthy of this thread or upset that I'm too boring for this thread.
Em, I find something appealing about cleaning toilets?

Kishi the Bad Lampshade

While we're on the subject of mooncups, very few people know this but the song 'Moon River' is actually about periods, and the film Breakfast at Tiffany's is actually in its entirety a metaphor for being on one's period. HOWEVER the book is not, the book is just a book, but the director really wanted to make a film about women's periods.

Mildly Diverting

I have no objection to women talking bloody nonsense, but does it have to be so in one's face?

Periods...as if Audrey Hepburn ever suffered one of those.

Cambrian Times

QuoteHow repulsive are you?
Have you not seen my avatar??!!

Pseudopath

Quote from: Brunette Romana 2 on March 16, 2011, 10:12:48 PM
Mooncups then: repulsive?

They're quite expensive, but if you want personalised greetings cards there's really no better place to go.

EDIT: Bah! Beaten to it.

Ronnie the Raincoat

Quote from: eluc55 on March 16, 2011, 10:29:38 PM


Oh, and we also had another game, where I would press my eyes against his bumcheeks and "look into the future".... with questionable success, I might add.

That's beautiful.

Quote from: Ronnie the Raincoat on March 16, 2011, 09:06:32 PM
stuff in the first post

Christ on a fucking tractor, I've never been more attracted and less attracted to anyone in a single moment.

dr_christian_troy

Quote from: Kishi the Bad Lampshade on March 16, 2011, 11:05:45 PM
While we're on the subject of mooncups, very few people know this but the song 'Moon River' is actually about periods, and the film Breakfast at Tiffany's is actually in its entirety a metaphor for being on one's period. HOWEVER the book is not, the book is just a book, but the director really wanted to make a film about women's periods.

What's Born Free really about then?

Ronnie the Raincoat

Quote from: The Region Legion on March 17, 2011, 01:28:58 AM
Christ on a fucking tractor, I've never been more attracted and less attracted to anyone in a single moment.

It's how I roll.

Lady Beaner

Fucking hell this thread is beautiful! :-D

I have nothing to add. Well, I probably have... but no fucking way.

mini goatbix

Quote from: The Region Legion on March 17, 2011, 01:28:58 AM
Christ on a fucking tractor, I've never been more attracted and less attracted to anyone in a single moment.
I'm new to PUI language, is that a neg?

Doomy Dwyer

#24
There's no menstruation involved, but plenty of shit. This is a bit of an odyssey.

I'd just started a new job and in my first week there got invited to see one of my new colleagues' band play in Camdens fashionable Dublin Castle public house. I thought it'd be a good chance to get to know my new workmates in a less horrifically artificial environment than the office, and also, the bloke who was in the band was someone I'd worked with previously, so loads of our former colleagues would be there as well and it would be a right royal rave up. It ain't normally my sort of thing to be honest, I spend enough time with work bastards, I don't want to hang out with the fuckers moaning about the fucking stationery cupboard in my spare time too - but I thought I'd make and effort and create a good impression 'cause deep down I'm a nice guy. I went down there on the bus with my missus and everything was groovy.

As soon as we walked in the door, things began to take a turn for the worse. My temperature seemed to shoot up about a hundred degrees, I was suddenly drenched in sweat and I felt like the Vision had done that thing where he alters his density and passes his intangible hand through your poor old guts before craftily partially re-materializing it, creating a sense of inner turmoil of the very worst kind. I just put it down to nerves and continued on my way through the busy and unfamiliar pub toward the bar and safety, all the while feeling steadily sicker with each footstep. While I was doing this, the band guy clocks me and shouts "Oi! Oi! Doomy" from the stage, alerting my already present new workmates to my entrance, who all turn as one to give us a wave, giddy with post work euphoria and the prospect of some imminent Rock 'n' Roll justice about to be meted out by one of the most ruthless and respected Reps in the West London area. Also, a contingent of the people I used to work with all give me the thumbs up, whooping and cheering in an unsightly frenzy of raw emotion because we haven't seen each other for the best part of a week.

Me and my beloved get to the bar. I tell her to get a couple of bevvies in as I've got to get to the khazi like quick, smart and in a hurry because I'm in a bad, bad way. I didn't go into detail because time was a factor. I just started to blindly push my way through the thickening throng - haircuts and students like some bespoke nightmare tailored to my exact specifications - with no real idea of where the toilets lie, just working on pure animal instinct. Some sort of survival mechanism had kicked in, I suppose. Finally I see the gents, and I break into a canter, there's a stool in my path which I clamber over, unfortunately my leading leg lands in a puddle of beer, causing me to perform the splits. Now, I don't now how I didn't just shit myself there and then. I was younger I suppose, my reflexes were quicker, my bowels in optimum condition, my sphincter as limber as an Olympic athlete. Somehow, mustering every ounce of my will power, I kept whatever foul contagion that I held within me, within me. I picked myself up and carried on my sweaty lurch, towards sweet sanctuary.

Of course, I get in there and all the traps are full and now I'm dancing, foot to foot like Ali, singing in a whisper to distract my arse and talking to myself, a sort of desperate mantra. And I'm clenching like I ain't never clenched before, like I was trying to crack a macadamia nut between my treacherous buttocks. I can feel the heat inside of me, like molten lava. I can feel the churning, almost hear it, like those swamps or tar pits that bubble and go 'Gloop'. After a wait of what seemed like hours, I hear that glorious sound of the flush, the rustle of clothing being adjusted and that unmistakable jangle of the belt as the trousers are firmly secured. The bolt slides back, out comes the punter, and I penguin it in like Flynn. Yesss.

It's a universal law that increased proximity to a toilet both increases the sense of urgency and instils a feeling relaxation paradoxically at the same time. Never relax is my advice. Not until you are seated, trousers down and preferably pants also. This was my fatal error. In trying to move slowly and carefully so as not to disturb my critical mass bowels I tarried too long. I'd barely got my belt unbuckled when the first torrent was unleashed, instantly filling my strides. I felt the level rising, actually up my back - hot, liquid and rank. The stench made me gag and retch, I experienced a moment of shame and disbelief that my own body could produce such an evil, cadaverous smell. I'd have spewed if I hadn't been so busy shitting my very essence out of my poor beleaguered arsehole. I managed to tense just for a moment, the time I needed to remove my long coat and hang it on a hook on the back of the toilet door, out of harms way. In a flash I ripped the belt free and in one swift, almost graceful movement, lowered my massively soiled dung filled trousers and pants. In doing this I must have relaxed again, coating the rear wall of the cubicle in huge waves of shit, like some Satanic water cannon. The moment had a hallucinatory quality, what with my high temperature, the physical and mental turmoil I was undergoing and the sheer stress and danger I was experiencing, I felt as though I was observing myself from above, I hung suspended above the cubicle watching a fountain of brown water gush from my arse. I managed to sit down, but it was far too late, the damage was most definitely done. I sat there, weak, drained and disgusted while my bowels continued to emit whatever dregs remained, little drips, followed by the occasional swift burst of slurry, then...nothing. I was spent. A sort of soothing calm filled the cubicle.

But not for long. I was caked. My clothes were ruined. Most of the cubicle was coated with several coats of shite. The smell was outrageous. My mind turned to thoughts of escape. I tried to formulate a plan to clear up as best I could, salvage whatever clothing remained wearable , find the missus and get as far away from Camden as possible before all my colleagues – past and present – were alerted to the carnage that had taken place this day. Gathering what scraps of usable toilet roll I could, I began to scoop out my jeans (black, fortunately). They would obviously have to be worn in order to re-enter the bar. When I'd completed the scooping I began to slowly, very slowly and with utmost care to remove the jeans. The pants were obviously a write-off. They were pants in name only. They'd seen things that people who make pants had never considered, even in their vilest imaginings. One sock was filled with shit, the other, amazingly, was pristine, which was a great comfort to me strangely. My t-shirt was drenched with crap, that'd have to be discarded. Luckily I had an over shirt (also black), that I could just about still wear, although it probably wouldn't stand up to close scrutiny. I was wearing big old bike boots, and after pouring out the excess excrement, these weren't too bad. Together with my long overcoat, I reckoned there was an outside chance of getting out of this mess.

It was then that I became aware of other toilet users voicing their horror and disbelief that anything human could have produced such a monstrous stench. They were coughing and moaning. I barely had any energy left, but joined in with their protestations, naked at that point, save for the one good sock. I cursed the filthy bastard who'd been in the cubicle before me and threatened to complain to the management about the squalor of his amenities. I don't think they were convinced, but I've got my pride and felt I had to do something to maintain a veneer of dignity. I dressed as quickly as I could, then set about cleaning up the cubicle, which proved to be a fruitless task. I hid most of the shitty clothes in the cistern, scraped up what shit I could and flung it down the pan, but there were just piles of it everywhere. Heaps. Although it had felt largely liquid when it was being expelled, my shit had begun to solidify into a brownie-like mass. It began to look like one of those cross sections of the earth that you see in books of natural history with the different layers of crust denoting different eras. It was quite fascinating to watch, but there was no time, the clock was ticking. I did my best to compose myself, put on the overcoat which covered most of my sins and waited 'til the complainers had left, then tentatively exited from the ruined trap, washed myself down as best I could, then made my way back to the bar. 

I saw my blessed turtledove, my one and only, still standing at the bar with a look of grave concern on her angelic features. I'd been gone a good half hour. I hurried toward her and told her I'd just shat myself in the most heinous way possible and that we'd have to leave sharpish before anyone alerted the authorities that some atrocity had taken place on the premises. I downed the pint she'd bought me like I was ice cold in Alex and we began to leave. As we did so we were immediately surrounded by my colleagues, old and new, asking where I'd been, how I was and on several horrific occasions, hugging me tightly. I tried to squirm free from their embraces without displacing too much of the toxic fug that my coat contained. I told them I was just nipping out for some fags and that I'd see them later. I left at high speed, never to return, homeward bound and toward the first of many showers.

That was nearly seven years ago. Now I only ever leave the house to stock up on adult diapers and brillo pads.

Treguard of Dunshelm

I once shat myself in Luton train station, but I can't compete with that. You, sir, are the king of shit.

Doomy Dwyer

Cheers, Treguard. It's just nice to finally have my achievements recognised.

rudi

Wow, and that's a walk up stairs and through a bit of a throng just to get out of The Castle. Poor you! x

Zero Gravitas

You disgust me, 'like it was ice cold in Alex'

You animals.
Even the blind behave better than this.

ThickAndCreamy

As a man currently suffering from diarrhoea I have to say that story's made me feel incredibly proud of my attempts to control it. I've been out for dinner, out for lunch and walked around shopping with others and have yet shat myself. It's anti-repulsive, but I'm happy to be like this, as although it would make a good story to let myself go, just fuck ever experiencing something as bleak as that.