I'm So Effin' Versatile

First thing's first.
My STD link-up has reached 20 blogs! Ahh, lovely - it's spreading nicely, I see.
The stories have been awesome. I've enjoyed reading all of them, truly. I haven't had one single regret about spreading this disease diploma around to all my nearest and dearest.

I promised I would give away some loot - and since I like round numbers, I think reaching 20 is a good place for me to exhibit some generosity, so....

Karen, from Life is a highway...and there are potholes - you were #2 and my trusty random generator has made you the first chosen one! You have won a "Rock My Blog" tote bag. Twitter DM or email me your deets, you lucky bitch! Yay!

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Second thing's second.
I've been slack about this acceptance - and it's NOT because it's not appreciated; it totally is.

Thank you to MultitaskingMumma, Blissfully Domesticated, Lost in Idaho and there was one more. If it's you, let me know - I'm so sorry!

Here is where I am supposed to list 7 things about myself. Pssst. They might not all be true - I'm in THAT kind of mood.

1. I once had a boyfriend's mother ask me how good her son was in the sack.
2. I made my television debut when I was 16; I got interviewed for a charity bike ride in great length, but it was 98% edited out. The only part that made it on air was "Sheep! I've never seen so many sheep!" I wasn't impressed.
3. I have had a real STD.
4. I hate onions; I find them unnecessary and repugnant.
5. I could very likely eat an entire box of cereal in one sitting, but since I'm not a male, I have not attempted to prove or disprove this claim.
6. I threw up on a ferris wheel all over the people in the bucket below.
7. I went on Drop Zone at 2am while peaking on mushrooms - it was fucking awesome.

And guess what? I'm being a bitch and not passing it on. Suck it! I'm keeping it for myself. I only like passing on STDs. Besides, I think everyone's already got it. Just TRY and get the blogger police to take me away - you'll never find me. I'm like Osama Bin Laden. Ah, fuck. That doesn't work anymore, does it? I can't really say Waldo either, because I was awesome at finding that little ugly bastard. Well... anyway... you get the idea.

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Third thing's third.

I'm guest posting over at Boobies, Babies & A Blog. It's about an awesomely stupid conversation I had with my drama queen husband recently than involves a foreshadowing of our son becoming addicted to internet porn, amongst other things... as ya do. Check it out :)

I'm a Gawd Damn Do-Gooder

I haven't ever really pimped anything on my blog yet. Subversive plugs for my Estro-goodies? Well, perhaps. But this post is exclusively for a product with an ulterior motive.

My mother, like so many women around the world, is a breast cancer survivor. She had a "special" tumor! (please say that in a Schwarzenegger circa Kindergarten Cop kind-of-way) We were told there was enough cancer to kill 12 grown men and yet, it was entirely contained. She didn't even require chemotherapy. To this day, her tumor travels around the world, working the medical conference circuit in a pickle jar.

I think that is macabrely awesome!

Anyway, my mother does the Walk to End Women's Cancer every year. Me? Never. As much as I love my mother and am so proud of her, I cheer from the side lines. I'm a side lines kinda girl... holding my coffee and donut. OK, fine.. donutssss.
BUT! And it's a big big, truly. What I CAN do is support her and get others to support her and the cause; it's the least I can do.

I have created 3 t-shirts, to which I got inspired from @LLA_Princess's mammography photo she posted last week on Twitter. I've never liked the tops you can get to support breast cancer before - I find them tacky. There's a fine line between kitsch and tacky; I like to stay on the cool side of kitsch, thank you very much!

If you buy one, all my profits will go directly to the Women's Cancer Charity. Here are the goods! The 3rd one is exactly like the black one - just in a Plus size.

So, please take care of your boobs; book your mammogram!

And if you can? Buy a t-shirt!

  

UPDATE!! MEN'S MAMMO T-SHIRT:

You love your boobs; I love your boobs... We've so much in common!

Check it out here.

My Life - The Soap Opera

I've almost always been so grateful for the relationship that I have with my mother. I had to say 'almost' because of course, no mother/daughter relationship is perfect and we have had our ins and outs - especially through my tumultuous teen years where I was a hormonal lunatic.

We have always been open with each other and I know a lot of my friends were always envious of how I could talk to my mother about topics that most of their mothers would either slap or ground them for mentioning. My mother has helped me work through a lot of tough times, and I'd like to think that it has been mutual as I've grown up.

A few months ago, during my "third life crisis" as I'm becoming to refer to it as, I was talking to my mother on the phone, trying to get some comfort from her words.

"...but it's been 15 years. Why do I still feel like my heart broke just yesterday?"

"It often feels like that for me and it's been 33 years."

"That's not helping."

"Sorry."

"My father. You still miss him? Even having been remarried for all these years?"

"Always."

--> About here is where I began to sob. <--

"I know this sounds awful but he died; that's absolute closure I think I could deal with easier than whatever it is I'm stuck in. But instead, he's out there... alive, somewhere else... not loving me."

"I know what you mean; it doesn't sound horrible. You just have to live your life the best way you can. I have been re-married for 26 years now - and you? You are just starting your family. We survive. Everything happens for a reason."

OK. Now fast forward to last week.

I'm watching Day of Our Lives, as I do every fucking day. I don't need a lecture, thank you. I exposed my addiction a long time ago -- deal with it. It functions more like comfortable background noise to me than anything else... until this week. The dialog between fire-cracker granny Alice Brady and her bat-shit crazy granddaughter Sami (Alison Sweeney) made me almost choke on my cheerios. It went like this:

"I know this sounds awful but grandpa died - he's at peace. But Rafe is out there... alive, somewhere else... not loving me."

"Surely you're not saying you would rather him be dead!"

"Of course not! I'm just saying that you were able to mourn him. But me? I'll always be wondering where he is... what he's doing... who he's with..."

Ummm... so, yes. It's official! My life has become a soap opera.

Dear Days of Our Lives Head Writing Team, Thank you for using my life as inspiration for you recent dialog. I still don't know how exactly you mananged to over-hear my conversation with my mother, but nevertheless, I am giving you fair notice: I want my fucking cut! Yours faithfully, Lady Estrogen

Hello, Hello Monday

Firstly, THEE most exciting thing happened last week! Was it the Rapture? Fuck no; even better! The awesome guys at @wesingyourtweet picked one of my tweets to sing. I felt like it was Christmas, my birthday AND winning a lifetime achievement award all rolled into one big fat emotion. Good times. Check it out:

Now, back to Monday's business.

I haven't yet paid any homage to one of my most favourite females, Poe. What's going on? I know; I must be slipping. There are so many songs that she has written that really affected me in such profound ways - and also for some for more lighter reasons. (Check out I'm Not A Virgin Anymore - it won't let me embed it but it's kinda like my theme song!) For whatever the reason, many of her words got me through many dark days. She hasn't published anything in a decade.

Poe! I miss you.

Turd is the Word

This is probably one of my stories that was in the Top 5 most difficult to reveal - or even to actually have it physically written down since I began writing this blog. I'll never forget this, ah-hem, event, but that doesn't mean that it's a good thing.

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I had a relationship with a guy when I was 17 that was more comfortable rather than passionate... more like 2 best mates that also had sex, a lot. We would try different things and often discuss it afterwards; what we could differently or try in the next round. 

He had exceptionally boney hips, and it got to the point where my inner thighs were so bruised from sex that it hurt to walk. The suggestion of having more missionary sex at that point made me cringe at the sheer thought of pounding against those aching wounds. We switched to doggie-style for the next few days and then the inevitable question was proposed.

“Wanna try...you know...up the arse?”

“Well, OK, but we’re going to have to use lots of lube, and go REALLY slow and be gentle!”

I should also add that his older brother’s nickname was ‘Horse’ and that similar genetic features were strong in his family, which didn’t appease my fears with what was about to happen. We got the lubricant out and even though he was very gentle, after about 3 thrusts in about 5 seconds, THAT WAS ENOUGH!

GET IT OUT! OWWWW-EEEEE!

So, take the sensation of the most painful shit you’ve ever had, and then double it. I had gathered a lot of people enjoy that feeling, but it wasn’t for me. Don't get me wrong - I do enjoy a good shit, but that's because it's coming OUT of me in an entirely non-sexually euphoric kind-of-way. Apparently, there is a G-spot somewhere up there too. Umm, yeah. I will gladly be leaving mine up there, alone and undiscovered.

Also? My boyfriend was uncircumcised.

As he was cleaning the lubricant off himself, he discovered a tiny chunk of turd under his foreskin. He jumped up like he was on fucking fire and proceeded to run around the house naked whilst squealing like a terrified little girl - very loudly. I was mortified, since it was, in fact, my turd, but I surprisingly dealt with it by laughing hysterically at the utter spectacle that he was making of himself. In hindsight, I don’t see why he was so shocked, considering where his dick had just been.

If you go digging in certain holes, you’re bound to find some dirt.

I'm a Software Girl

This is inspired by the last phone conversation I had with my dad, for over an hour last night - trying to set up my "new" laptop for work, which is actually a shit-box hand-me-down from one of the programmers. I feel like I'm using someone else's toothbrush and wearing their skid stained underwear and I don't know where anything is located, nor can I get anything to work. 
(If you know the song, this is adapted from the tune Oh Father, by Madonna)

Oh Father, I need you to help me

They switched my laptop upon me

Why can't I get on the net?

It's funny that way, just copy the settings

from your other computer

What a brilliant idea

I should have thought that myself.

You should know this by now

I don't care for this stuff, I never thought I would

This is making me cry; why won't it connect?

I really wish you were here!

It was just yesterday

My old one was working and nothing was wrong

Oh, the anger I feel

Oh Father, I'm losing my shit.

Maybe someday

When I look back I'll be able to say

Just look in the advanced properties

Change the configuration.

Oh Father, you might have to come over

Wait! It's working; what did we do?

I don't know but I'm online.

You have helped me out

I rocked this shit, I never thought I would

I won't have to cry, it once had the power

I never felt so good about myself.

Everything I Need to Know, I Learned from Heathers

There are many, many movies that I love.

No, scratch that.

There are many movies to which when I watch them, I want to crawl inside the screen and live there. I know that most of them aren't prepared for that level of intimacy from me, but I can't help it - it's how I feel.

My favorite movie of all time is Heathers. Yes, it's true that Ferris Bueller's Day Off runs a very close second, but Heathers will always be my bestie flick. It has some fundamental life lessons that I would like to share with you today.

1. Croquet is a blood sport.

2. Cherry slushie is a far superior flavor to Coke slushie.

3. An offer of pâté can help deal with many of life's awkward situations.

4. BBQ Corn Nuts and liquid drainer are NOT a balanced meal.

5. Shower-nozzle masturbation is good, clean fun.

6. The extreme always seems to make an impression.

7. Chaos is what killed the dinosaurs, darling.

8. Your best friend can also be your worst enemy.

9. It is neither possible nor pleasant to be fucked gently with a chainsaw.

And last, but definitely not least,

10. You can watch your psychopathic boyfriend blow himself up and not get hurt, but simultaneously stand just close enough to light your cigarette off the explosion's flames. This would be convenient if say, you have lost your lighter, or are wearing a mini skirt that doesn't necessitate the possibility of carrying such lighter.
(If you smoke and also have a suicidal, psychopathic boyfriend, please do not try this at home.)

Quelle Surprise

How Good Intentions Can Blow Up in Your Face

I had a strange relationship with a particular guy through the majority of high school. We never actually dated, or even kissed, but there was always an unsaid tension between us and whenever I started dating someone else, he usually had a snooty fit with me for a week or two. I think it was the classic symptom of him not wanting me, but didn’t want anyone else to have me either - a male trait that is fairly common.

I always felt like I was probably the only person in the school that understood him and valued him as a friend. His male ‘friends’ (I used that term loosely) didn’t really care about him. He wasn’t out-going enough so he usually got ignored and forgotten when it came time for after school socializing and other events; he was never invited to the big parties. Most of them were certified, card-carrying members of the jock asshole club, and for one reason or another, he wanted so badly to be a part of them – he was like their neglected puppy dog that followed them around. He was slightly awkward but sweet, humble and kind – all opposing qualities from those guys he considered his buddies.

I watched this cringe-worthy dynamic all though the years and it only got worse the older we got... and soon it was time for my friend to have his big 19th birthday. I knew I wanted to do something extra special for him – I don’t think he had anything special done for him by anyone else, ever – besides his own family, anyway. Every year, from grade 9 to grade 12, I had baked him a cake for his birthday and put it in his locker – but for his big ‘One-Nine’ I wanted to do more.

I had planned to take him out for dinner and then I organized for all the assholes to go to the local night club and we would surprise him. I’m sure it would have made his decade... if it went as planned.

I printed up a classy invite for the dinner portion and even his mother and younger sister was in on my scheme. I was actually very close with the sister as well – I considered her my adopted sister. They were very appreciative of my plan for him and agreed that he needed someone do this for him – and I was more than happy to do it.

As much as I despised the jock jerks, they also agreed to the plan – all they had to do was keep their mouths shut and show up to the club. I thought it would be easy, since they ignored him anyway and would probably have ended up at the club regardless – so I wasn’t asking for the moon.

Then his birthday arrived. After 5 years of being neglected, he finally had had enough and gave in to his insecurities. He pestered the jocks all morning about what plans they had that night and then one guy (my least favourite one, of course) caved to the pressure and leaked the plan to him.

Now, what do you think he ‘should’ have done?
Been touched by the plan and gone along with it... right?
No.

He found me at lunch and told me that since he knew the plan, he was just going to go straight out with the guys and NOT have dinner with me. That was the fucking ‘thanks’ I got – not even for just that day, but also for everyday for the 5 years prior to that moment. I felt like he just spat in my face; I was crushed.

After school, I even got a phone call from his little sister. She was angry with ME and told me that I was making HIM feel bad;
I was ruining his birthday. Are you fucking kidding me?
Click.
That effectively ended the relationship with my ‘adopted sister’ as well.

I ended up going with a friend to the club anyway; I probably shouldn't have – but I was pissed off AND heart-broken – not a good combination for me to deal with. I ended up getting drunk and having a great time making out with a hot older guy on the dance floor (that had previously attended our school, so everyone knew him) for the majority of the night. It wasn’t me at one of my most admirable moments, I know that, but I’d like to think that it annoyed the fuck out of my 'friend' (he hated seeing me with other guys, remember). I don’t care what anyone says about "rising above", sometimes revenge feels fantastic!

The funniest part was that about 6 years later, I saw his mother at the local shops and this woman (whom for a long time considered me her ‘eldest daughter’ and I didn’t even have to knock to enter their home) scrunched up her sour face and gave me the-dirtiest-look-ever! Seriously? Wow.

Bajingos Illustrated

You better believe this work of art is going up on my store some time in the near future. A thanks has to be extended to @Ida_Homie for his part in brainstorming for this juvenile activity. Twitter is truly inspirational... if you're aiming to be inspired by useless drivel that contains zero intellectual value, which is my favorite kind, truly.

REVISIONS: Whilst formatting the poster, I thought of one I couldn't BELIEVE I left out - Gold Digger. Ugh! OK - so poster is now available as well! Check it.

I'm Spreading STDs!

So, I got to thinking.
I know - it's always a monumental event - let's move on, shall we?

This whole 'peer blog award' thing - it's something I never even knew existed when I first started blogging. They are like the People's Choice Awards, except once you receive it, you have to pass it on to someone else. Many of us, including me, are kind of uncomfortable passing it on; like it's icky. Then I thought... wait, that's not like a People's Choice Award at all - it's like an STD!

Then I mulled it over for a while.

Yes. They're almost exactly like an STD, with the exception being that we are honored and flattered when these awards are passed on to us from other fellow bloggers, instead of being ashamed of having to request a prescription. OK, so that's probably a big difference, but you get where I'm going with this, right?

Without further adieu, I present the STD:

Sexy & Talented Diploma.

I want to pass on this awesome STD to all my deserving nearest and dearest.
Here are the rules:
1. Make up ONE totally ridiculous story about yourself that is a complete rip-off from a movie. It can be as long or short as you want; clean or crass as you want.
2. Pass it on to whomever you feel is deserving of this STD - or accept it and keep it for yourself; it's your blog - it's your choice.
I'M PRO CHOICE!
3. If you choose to accept this STD, please link your acceptance post back here. (I'll keep it open for at least all summer.) There's a very good chance that I'll be sporadically choosing random winners to get some of my world famous mediocre Estro-goodies.
I know you want some!

<a href="http://adventuresinestrogen.blogspot.com/2011/05/im-spreading-stds.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="250" alt="STD Award" src="http://adventuresinestrogen.com/images/STD_awardh250.jpg"> </a>

My story:

My mom was going to marry this guy, and, like, even though I didn't hate him, I was not entirely cool with it. We went out for Chinese food one night and my mom was being a total cunt rag. Then the next day, I looked down and saw my mother's wrinkly body... ON ME! I was like, "What the fuck is going on?" Then she ran into my room and get this: SHE LOOKED LIKE ME! My mom was all like, "What the hell?" So, yeah, we had totally switched bodies! It was fucked up.

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I could have listed at least 40 here, but like any good STD, I'm hoping it will spread around to everyone that deserves it. I am listing a bit more than normal, but I need to boost the first wave. It was much too hard to choose a reasonable number, so I used the RANDOM generator to whittle my list down to 15! (I'm serious, by the way, I couldn't decide, which is just another reason why I hate these fucking things.) I therefore bestow this STD to the following awesome blogs, to which I love each and every one.
YOU ALL DESERVE THIS STD:

SAHMlovingit MultitaskingMumma 2 Much Testosterone Rockin' Mama My Inner Pin-Up

AllFookedUp Yeah. Good Times. The Suniverse Almost There My Mad Mind

Jojo's So Called Life Belle of the Desert Finding One's Way Boobies, Babies & A Blog Unladylike Behavior

GO FORTH & POPULATE!

BTW. Including this instance, I've mentioned the acronym "STD" 10 times in this post - take that SEO; I'm ready for ya!
Come and get me!

Housekeeping? Housekeeping!

It's about time I get my shit in order. If I cannot do it in my own life, I might as well do it for my blog. I'm going to de-clutter my site soon, but then I hope to be done messing with my damn layout, once and for all.  I've also noticed 3 things lately - all of which were catalysts to my less than ground-breaking decision.

A. I've tried to publish on particular days of themes - I enjoy them - but it often would throw off my sad attempt at scheduling only every other day. If I do a Thursday Writing Workshop, I can't do a Wordless Wednesday or a Friday Flashback... shit like that. I'll chalk it up to my OCD, but it greatly annoyed the piss out of me.

B. Weekends suck my statistics' hairy nuts. Quite a few times I've rolled out a big gun on a Saturday or Sunday and heard nothing but crickets. Ah, rrrrright! People have families! Damn them. Ha! Isn't it so much easier keeping up with blog reading while we're all supposed to be working? Yes! During-the-week.

C. I don't want to post too often and I don't want to post just for the sake of posting. I want to make every post a valuable and worthwhile waste of your time when you come and visit me. I take a lot of pride in that! I love and throughly appreciate every single visit and comment - it's been an incredible year.

So, here's what I've decided:

I will be posting only on MONDAY - WEDNESDAY - FRIDAY. That's it. Finito.

If I want to participate in a Tuesday or Thursday blog activity, I'll post those the day before and look like a nerdy keener. So, if you see a Top Ten Tuesday post go up on a Monday, don't worry - I do, in fact, know what fucking day it is - I haven't completely lost it... yet.

If I learn of some completely earth-shattering news on a non-posting day, I'm just going to have to learn to hold my wad. Patience is NOT one of my virtues, but I'm really going to give this whole "consistency" thing a chance.

Coming by on a weekend? Thank you! That's fantastic. Please take a look around at the latest posts from that week; or if you're feeling adventurous, have a click around the archives or key words.

THANK YOU AGAIN, from the bottom of my... I'll stick with heart... for reading my rants and ridiculous stories of when I was a hormonal fool (because I'm totally not that any longer, right?).

*muah*

Walmart Scars for Life

If I have to decide which would be my most memorable high school job, it's really a tough call - I've had a lot of horrible jobs. I'm going to have to go with highlighting my 7-year stretch at Walmart, as a "Customer Service Specialist". Here are the top 4 reasons why I'll never forget my, ah-hem, work experience.

{alibirston}

1. I used to be the one that announced the commercials over the PA system. There was an old bitty full-timer that would take home the flyer every weekend and ON HER OWN TIME, she would write out commercials; they all sucked. But the one I will never forget began like this, "De Niro and Pacino, together in Heat." She was so snarky and militant about her writing - claiming there was nothing wrong with it. I changed it anyway. I changed a lot of them; usually correcting her grammar. She hated me.

2. This is the job to which I learned how disgusting "functioning" members of society really are. I've found urine-soaked nylons hidden in the Infant Department. Blood-stained bathing suits in the woman's change room. And shit-tarnished jeans that were returned... because, of course, you can return ANYTHING at Walmart - even if you do decide to include a little bonus brown package of your own. Where's the shame?

3. I mainly worked the switchboard - which doubled as the fitting room attendant. There was also a men's fitting room, but it was not supervised. They would have to 'ding' the service bell and I would have to run over to let them in - in between answering 10 calls per minute and tending to impatient ladies in the women's fitting room. Easy there, ladies. This ain't Nordstroms! FUN.
   Nine times out of 10, the DING was produced by someone's snotty kid, just "testing it out." Emmm - yeah. The parent would usually greet me with a shrugged smile, "Hee, hee. Sorry. You know kids!" I'd be scream-thinking, "No, I don't, as a matter of fact. I'm 18 and successfully use birth control, asshole." I actually had nightmares about that bell; I began hearing it even when I wasn't working.

4. I used to hide at the back of the store when they would do the annoyingly lame Walmart cheer before the store opened in the morning. If it was one particular Assistant Manager in charge, he'd bust my ass. He would tauntingly whisper over the PA, "Steeeeephanie. We know you're back there! We won't start without you... and you'll have to lead the cheer now." Dammit! Mutha fukka!

Gimmie a W. Gimme an A. Gimmie an L. Gimme a squiggly.
(Yes, that's right. The star somehow translated to the word "squiggly")
and... well... you get the idea.

I'm Freakin' Published!

Ohh Emm Gee! How excited am I? Can you hear the squealing in my words? 

Squeeeeeeeeee!

Books. Novels. These mean nothing to me now because my life-long dream has been realized. My submission for the Urban Dictionary has been APPROVED! 

I had come up with the word while describing the ancient sewing machine that my grandmother dug up for me a few months back. The more I thought about it, I just knew I was on to something - I just needed to pump up the "ghetto" in my definitions. Because, really? The UD world doesn't give a shit about someone's old sewing machine.

So, please gaze upon the brilliant literary musings of none other than myself. I'll be available for autographs later on today. If someone from the Pulitzer committee calls, they can speak with my agent!

And don't forget the merchandise! Oh, how I salivate over the idea of fresh merchandise. True, I don't benefit from these sales. I'd much rather you buy something from MY SHOP, but it's newly created merchandise nevertheless - so it must be celebrated. It's been an exciting morning, that's for damn sure. 

I think I need to take a nap.

The Mark Of A Man

Welcome, welcome! Who's that knocking at my door? Well, it's one of my blogging besties SAHMlovingit popping in for a visit. I just absolutely LOVE when I tell one of my embarrassing and raunchy tales and someone emails me saying, "Oh My God, you reminded me of something that happened to me!" That's what I strive for - reminding people of all those misadventures we'd all wished we would rather forget - but then where would be the fun in that? I say dredge up those memories like rotting garbage from the bottom of a stagnant pond. So what if it's sloppy and it stinks... I will gladly come to take away that festering heap with my virtual forklift. SAHMlovingit? I hand my forklift over to you - scoop it up, baby! Scoop-It-Up!

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I’d been out on a couple of dates with this guy who was a fair few years older than me. I was 17 or 18 I think. He was a bit of a dickhead scummer rebel so I thought it was worth a shot, if only to try and look good in front of the ‘cool’ kids.

We’d been to the pub where we’d both consumed quite a large amount of cider. Him more so than me and, as usual, I found myself propping him up most of the way home. It was late and all the lights were off in his parents house as we stumbled around in the dark living room. His parents weren’t that well off and I clearly remember the room smelling of piss, electric fire and dust; hardly the most romantic setting.

Still, we were young and drunk, so what the fuck?

We started making out and even the over-riding smell of beer didn’t put me off. It made me feel a little icky but hey, I’d take that any day.

He quickly indicated that he wanted to try a 69 position. I do have to say, although it can have its moments, it wasn’t my favourite move at the time and it certainly isn’t now. I was on top – much easier.

I began to chow down on his hard cock. I was finding the moment all too strange. Normally I’d be turned on by the fact we may get caught at any moment but I didn’t quite fancy the idea of being battered to death with a rolling pin by his mother in a flannelette nightgown and a hair net! I had my eyes shut just hoping we could get this over with. He’d turned the living rooms lights on by this time too. I felt so vulnerable.

But the worst was yet to come.

A bad odour filled my nostrils.

It smelt like shit.

He didn’t have any pets and we’d left our shoes in the hallway so neither of us had stood in anything.

I panicked. Seriously, WTF?

I didn’t want to open my eyes but I knew I had to.

I opened them to see his boxer shorts right in front of me, still around the bottom of his legs only a foot or so away from my head.

There, staring right at me was the biggest skid mark I’ve ever seen in my life.

Needless to say, he was history and I still gag when I re-tell this story.