In response to an overwhelming lack of public demand, I have decided to share my story of a loony partner for your delectation.
It might not surprise you to learn that some of my former girlfriends were of the rugby fan variety. The type that hangs around the rugby club bar and pubs trying to hitch on to a sporty man.
One girl was actually so turned on by the sight of mudded, blooded sweaty players that she insisted that after training I ran straight back to her place, without showering, so as to get down to a bit of nookie while still covered in mud and kitted out. This got progressively more extreme, reaching the point that she insisted I put in my gumshield and put my muddy boots on in the bathroom. But OK; it was a bit weird but the sex was good so I didn´t mind. Then she insisted I should wear a jock strap under my shorts instead of swimming trunks as I have always done. OK, I went a long and bought a jock strap. I continued to please her as I was quite enjoying the nookie.
But then one evening, after training, things took a turn for the worse. I ran to her place to work up a fresh sweat, got indoors and then went up to her room. She said ´wait there a moment´, then walked over to her table, reached into a box, and produced an old fashioned razor blade. The hairs on the back of my neck all stood up, and I asked what she wanted to do with that. She said ´let me make a little cut above your eye; I want you to look more warrior-like. Just a tiny cut to get some blood flowing.’ I thought ‘tulip the woman’s a psycho’ and said no. She was pretty insistent but then got into a huff calling me a big wimp etc. Fearing what would happen with a girl in a bad temper and a naked razor blade I rather feebly said I had to get going and left. I ran home, only realising half way that I was still wearing rugby boots and had left my trainers at her place. Well sod it, I wasn’t going back for them. Next morning I woke up, went downstairs to fetch the milk bottles and found my trainers lying on the doorstep on top of a piece of paper. I picked up the trainers, which I later inspected for sharp objects, and the piece of paper, which read ‘you f**king wimp, don’t come back’. Fine, I wasn’t planning on it.
It might not surprise you to learn that some of my former girlfriends were of the rugby fan variety. The type that hangs around the rugby club bar and pubs trying to hitch on to a sporty man.
One girl was actually so turned on by the sight of mudded, blooded sweaty players that she insisted that after training I ran straight back to her place, without showering, so as to get down to a bit of nookie while still covered in mud and kitted out. This got progressively more extreme, reaching the point that she insisted I put in my gumshield and put my muddy boots on in the bathroom. But OK; it was a bit weird but the sex was good so I didn´t mind. Then she insisted I should wear a jock strap under my shorts instead of swimming trunks as I have always done. OK, I went a long and bought a jock strap. I continued to please her as I was quite enjoying the nookie.
But then one evening, after training, things took a turn for the worse. I ran to her place to work up a fresh sweat, got indoors and then went up to her room. She said ´wait there a moment´, then walked over to her table, reached into a box, and produced an old fashioned razor blade. The hairs on the back of my neck all stood up, and I asked what she wanted to do with that. She said ´let me make a little cut above your eye; I want you to look more warrior-like. Just a tiny cut to get some blood flowing.’ I thought ‘tulip the woman’s a psycho’ and said no. She was pretty insistent but then got into a huff calling me a big wimp etc. Fearing what would happen with a girl in a bad temper and a naked razor blade I rather feebly said I had to get going and left. I ran home, only realising half way that I was still wearing rugby boots and had left my trainers at her place. Well sod it, I wasn’t going back for them. Next morning I woke up, went downstairs to fetch the milk bottles and found my trainers lying on the doorstep on top of a piece of paper. I picked up the trainers, which I later inspected for sharp objects, and the piece of paper, which read ‘you f**king wimp, don’t come back’. Fine, I wasn’t planning on it.
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