I went to my parents’ house last weekend to celebrate the anniversary of my being plucked from my mother’s womb, three weeks overcooked and half-way through taking a massive mid-natal dump, if my father’s gleeful reports are to be believed. Over lunch, my sister regaled us with the tale of a university chum who once got so drunk she fell flat on her face without putting her hands out and smashed her top jaw and front four teeth.
“That’s nothing,” I said, “the stuff we got up to in my day* would make your hair curl.”
And thus, glazing over nostalgically like that old biddy in Titanic, I told the story of my old friend and housemate Gladys Wankwell**, one of the unluckiest and most inept one night-standees there ever was. (Not quite like in Titanic, though. Not 103 years old, obviously, and the subject of the reminiscing was Gladys’ hapless dabbling in the university spaff pool rather than the cruel fate of some fine piece of ass I met on a boat, but you know what I mean.)
(*Three years ago.
**Some names have been changed to protect the identity of those concerned.)
The year was 2009 and Gladys, Carla and I were all living together in Loughborough, a small, unlovable town in the Midlands home to one of the country’s finest sporting universities. It was the February of our second year. While Carla and I were still finding our feet after the inevitable demise of first-year relationships, Gladys was stuck in a sex rut that was sort of the shagging equivalent of the Marinas Trench. Considering Loughborough has a boy/girl ratio of around 5:1 and a significant fraction of the blokes had the brawn and kind of off-the-charts testosterone levels found in most future England rugby players, how she’d managed to sustain such a drought for over a year was anyone’s guess.
Then one fateful night, when we were off to the Student’s Union much-celebrated ‘Stupid Tuesday’ night (‘Bottle and a shot for £1.95! Free entry!’), Gladys’ thirteen long months of pent-up sexual frustration came to a savage head. Using the time-honoured ploy of grinding up against some dude’s crotch until he either pegged it in the other direction or slurringly suggested some sort of tête-à-tête elsewhere, Gladys astonished us all by waving us goodbye at 11:30pm and disappearing with a young blade by the name of Matt P. Delighted that she was finally dusting the cobwebs out of her musty old clam, the rest of us danced into the night without a second thought.
The next morning our group convened at the local Varsity (similar to a Wetherspoons, but with the notable distinction of offering a dish of sausage, chips and beans served in an actual dog bowl), as we always did after a night out. It served curly fries in a bucket, which any fool knows is the best cure for an Apple VK hangover, and had big, round tables that were ideal for discussing whatever shit had gone down the previous night. It was here that Gladys first told us about would later come to be known as ‘Deskgate’.
“Tell us what happened then,” I asked between mouthfuls of curly fries. “We’re dying to know.”
“Well,” said Gladys, “we got back to his place and, you know, got down to it pretty quickly. In fact, we started shagging on his desk within five minutes.”
“On the desk!” Everyone tried to avoid each other’s gaze as we we each considered the potential damage Gladys might have done to one of the shoddily made pieces of furniture supplied by university halls. Not that Gladys was a three hundred pound monster or anything, but we all shared a thought that if her ludicrously uncoordinated shoulder-shimmying on the dancefloor was anything to go by, then Matt P probably hadn’t known what he was letting himself in for.
“Yes, on the desk,” Gladys went on. “But I drunkenly thought it would be a good idea to try a bit of dirty talk to keep things moving.”
“…What did you say?”
“Er. “Fuck me on the desk”? I think.”
“Of course. The poetry of love’s young dream, that is.”
“Then I accidentally got his iPod stuck up my arse, because I was sat on the desk, see, and he’d put on what was blatantly his sex playlist.” There was an appalled silence while everyone considered this. “You know. Like Candy Shop by 50 Cent.”
“Innit. So I told him to do me from behind instead.”
“You told him that?!”
“And then what happened?”
“Well, then he did me from behind.”
By this point, we were all rolling around in hysterics at the idea of Gladys issuing fuck-commands in her nasal monotones while she inconspicuously tried to dislodge a rogue iPod from her backside, but that wasn’t even the best part.
“The worst part,” interrupted Gladys over the howls of laughter, “was when I vommed.”
There was a microscopic pause.
“…You vommed?” said Carla incredulously. “What, in the toilet?”
“No-ooo. It wasn’t my fault though, I have a very sensitive gag reflex.”
“OhmyGod. You were sick on his cock. YOU WERE SICK ON HIS CO-“
“No, no. No! On the floor. By the bed.”
“What on earth did he say!?” I asked, thinking of the absolute shit fit I would throw if a complete stranger threw up on my floor. “Didn’t he go absolutely batshit mental?”
“Well, he didn’t notice at first, because it was dark, so I sort of mopped it up slyly with my bra.”
“Yeah, and then I went to the bathroom to sort of clean everything up, but it turned out the door I thought was an en suite bathroom was a wardrobe. So I had to go down the hall, but I couldn’t find my clothes so I just used a tea towel and pegged it to the loo.”
“But then just as I was dashing for the bogs this really tall blonde girl came out of her room and looked at me like she wanted me dead.”
“Probably because you were naked in her flat.”
“Yeah. Also I think I was quite loud and her room was right next door, so she probably heard everything.”
“Yeah, I know right. Anyway, when I got back to Matt P’s room he’d turned the lights on and was looking at this sick puddle on his floor. He was like ‘were you sick just now???’ and I was like ‘er, no’, and then I grabbed my bra and legged it.”
“…the vommy bra?”
“Yeah. It was rank.”
We laughed literally ALL AFTERNOON. It was probably one of the best days of my life. Over the next couple of years I told the story to almost everyone I knew: all my friends, friends of friends, workmates, boyfriends, two different hairdressers, the woman charged with beautifying my bikini line, complete strangers I made friends with on the night bus…everyone. It is such a brilliant story. But the very best part was later that same evening. I was at home, but the rest of the gang had gone to the noodle bar. I’d decided to skip it because I was still full from the curly fries and my stomach was sore from all the laughing, but just as I was heading into the shower I got a call from Carla.
All I could hear was a weird wheezing noise and the sound of chattering in the background.
“Mate, mate,” gasped Carla, finally, just as I was about to put the phone down. “You won’t believe it. He’s here. He’s here!”
“Who!? Who’s there!?”
“You know that guy what Glads shagged last night? HE’S HERE WITH ALL OF HIS FRIENDS.”
I swear to God it’s the nearest I have ever been to having a stroke. I damn near gave myself a hernia from laughing so hard. Apparently, Gladys had been sat with all our mates on one of those noodle bar benches, looking like absolute shit because she was so hungover, and Matt P had walked in with half of his hall, including the blonde from the hallway, and all of them had swivelled their eyes in turn to look at the girl who’d choked on their mate’s dick and chucked up all over the floor.
You’d think that the experience would have put Gladys off men for life and that the story ends with her abandoning her studies to join a convent, but in fact it didn’t; it had simply opened the floodgates. Over the next year she whittled her bedpost down to a toothpick, and I swear every single steamy encounter was the stuff of nightmares. Or dreams, I suppose, if you’re a script-writer for American Pie. Amongst her conquests were the Gymnast, Rab the Over-Enthusiastic and Wanky Richard, an inexperienced young man she found masturbating furiously over her duvet when she came back from the bathroom. There was the Bummer (unfortunate aim), the Cummer (“mate, seriously, so much spunk. Fucking pints of it, everywhere”) and a bloke called Lance who did nothing except tentatively finger her perineum before demanding a blow job and subsequently being asked to leave.
The story does have a happy ending (!) though. Gladys graduated with a degree in Politics and went on to work for a prominent Member of Parliament and subsequently various charitable organisations. She also enjoys cross-stitch and decoupaging teapots these days, which just goes to show that almost anyone can become an upstanding citizen if they really want to.
It’s nice to know I’ve still got this dirt in case I ever need to blackmail her though.
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