Pardon My Erection

Does anyone else get the raging horn when they’re hungover? I’ve been priapic all day after a night on the guinnesses and little RTFQ has been ‘in review order’ since naafi break. I went to lunch after Moodybitch suggested I get some scran (that's not the only thing she suggested, the minx), as I couldn’t face the mass humanity of the dining room, I opted for a bar meal. There was an ulterior motive for this decision. The barmaid (let’s call her Mary to protect her real name, which is Michelle) is a pert little thing from the province. She has lovely blue eyes, a quick, pretty smile and ma-husive chebs for such a small frame (I asked, she’s a 32D).
I flirt harmlessly with her when I’m ordering drinks, because quite frankly it makes her day, but today was different. I’m stood at the bar feeling like Dr Jekyll trying to fight Mr Hyde whilst little RTFQ is trying to jump up to the bar to see what all the fuss is about. All I wanted was an OJ and lemonade, but the word “Blowjob” wouldn’t leave my mind. I managed to order my drink, she pours it and asks “Ice?” This stumps me as what I heard was “Please bend me over the bar, cover my waps with pork scratchings and fcuk me like the stallion you are.” Mary is clearly used to me staring agape at her t1ts when she asks me things so proceeds to put cubes in my drink anyway. By this stage mini RTFQ is drooling and proceeding to experiment on the breaking strain of CS95 trousers, all the while my brain is about 5 seconds behind events and feels like its been knocked around like Little Mo off Eastenders.
Things now start to get out of hand. She drops an ice cube on the bar, quickly picks it up and puts it in her mouth. Now, my brain instantly gets back on mission when her hand is about 5cm from her lips, and the whole thing goes soft-focus slow motion. I even caught a glimpse of her pointy pink tongue darting out to the cube just before entry. Oh bollox, the horn is back… hang on, I just need to readjust.

That’s better, right, so I turn from the bar with my drink and put the other hand in my pocket in order to hide the fact I have a stalk on and painfully aware that I’m wearing loose boxers. For the benefit of the ladies I will explain that CS95 trousers and loose keks are NOT a good combo when ‘Roger is Agitated.’ Meanwhile Michelle disappears into the back room.
I’m just about to sit down when there’s a smash. Sounds like Michelle has tipped over a load of glasses so I gallantly go to the backroom on the off chance that she did so whilst masturbating furiously on the worktop. Again, little RTFQ is leading from the front like a demented mini H Jones.
I turn into the room. And walk straight into Michelle. Who, in a gloriously Carry-on moment, is bent over picking up pieces of glass. Mini RTFQ is pushed firmly against her left buttock. I’ve explained that CS95 is flimsy, and little RTFQ ain’t that little when in fighting order, so there is no way she could NOT feel the arrival of my closest friend. She recoils and I try to grab her hips to (I SWEAR) stop her falling forward into the glass. Unfortunately she turns quickly to, understandably, identify who it was who just tried to storm the breach. For the briefest of seconds my left hand brushes her right butt cheek. She looked shocked, I was probably staring agape at her chebs again.

All this is all very, very bad. I have unwittingly just performed two acts of sexual harassment. Luckily I have by now gone extremely red and I start apologising maniacally.

With a twinkle in her eye she says in that beautiful Irish brogue: “Don’t go worrying about it” - a lightning quick look at my crotch – “I didn’t feel a thing.” The lying cow.

So, has anyone’s extreme arousal ever got them in trouble before? I’d be interested to know if any of the ladies have ever slipped off a bus seat because the bus driver was fit?

Secondly, do you reckon, after the whole ice-cube, witty come-back situation that she wants some of me? I might get drunk and sing Neil Diamond at her or something…..

 

It's alright, the lass is coming up tonight. We might play my favourire 'gestapo officer and petulent french barmaid' game again:

"Kommen Sie hier you feisty surrender monkey! Ich mochte spanken sie mit mein Bratwurst!"

"Oooh La la Monsieur Faust, je n'aime pas le gra- mmmmph mmm slurp"

 

Just had a phone call from the mess manager. My sphyncter actually spasmed:

"Capt RTFQ, I wanted to speak about the incident in the bar this lunchtime"

Simply wrote Bugger....I looked to the nearest door, blocked by the fat typist, on third floor, could risk a PLF onto the concrete below, are those sirens I can hear

"Look the whole thing was an accident"

"OK sir, but it needs to be recorded, there are proceedures to be followed you know"

"I understand that, but really nothing happened"

"That's not what Miss ****** told me"

My career's over, I'm going to jail, I'll be on a police register for the rest of my life.

"Have you spoken with anyone else yet?"

Maybe I can slot the fcuker and put the scares on the girl. It is simply amazing how quickly one becomes a criminal mastermind in such circumstances.

"Not yet sir, how is it by the way?"

"Erm.....you what?"

"How is it? I understand it gave Miss **** quite a shock"

"..............."

"Sir?"

"Is this a wind up?"

"Snigger, Not at all sir, I understand you cut your finger when you helped to pick up the glass, it needs to go in the accident book"

Fcuker obviously knew the story and was playing me like a 2 dollar banjo. Bastard, I very nearly sh@t.

 

RTFQ absolutely fcuking brilliant, almost fell off my chair with laughter, rest of the mess thought i had gone completely and utterley mad as a fish, talk of padded room and the like, all will be ok as long as the new pains in my chest subside and i am able to make my way back to the bar post happy hour and recount your story, might be even better if i print it out for every one to read so i don't miss out the most important points.

hope you now have put the offending CBT95 in the wash

 

RTFQ

if you dont jump her soon, you seriously need a pacestick up your arrse

 

I have discovered that the worst time for this is often when you experience the apparent euphoria of a hangover that has failed to materialise or isn't as bad as you thought. In reality because one is still p1$$ed and your bodily functions have temporarily bypassed the small unimportant bit of ones brain that one thinks with, wiring eyes and imagination straight to testicles.

My personal worst experience of this came on the last day of term before Christmas at Uni. Having been out the previous night and got really quite drunk indeed I woke up in the morning feeling pretty good and headed off to a sadly unavoidable lecture in what I now realise were suspiciously high spirits.
That morning the plan was for people to deliver a series of lecturettes to the rest of the class. I drew third place and began my piece with the confidence of one who is drunk-but-doesn't-know-it.
About halfway through I had some visual aids to jabber about when I made the mistake of looking out at the assembled class and I saw her.
Third row back, aisle seat and exactly at eye level was a very nice redhead wearing a skirt that would barely pass for a belt and she was just in the process of crossing her legs. My autonomic nervous system thought it saw something and bang! Beat to quarters and prepare to run out the guns . The force with which my flies were assaulted almost doubled me over and left me standing bent forward to disguise things. Yet worse of all I still had to deliver some vis-aids spiel and the sudden rush of blood away from my brain had completely blanked my memory leaving me floundering on the opposite side of the stage from the cover of the lectern with no way of getting there without revealing my condition in profile to all and sundry. The following three minutes were the longest I can remember.
To cap it all in the Q&A session at the end the source of my discomfort had the temerity to smile sweetly and ask whether I all right because I "looked a little uncomfortable out there". She then leans forward causing a pronounced tightening of her t-shirt and another assault on YKK's workmanship. It took me absolutely ages to get all my notes in order and leave the lectern for next speaker.

 

I merely suggested the best hangover cure was a fry up and a shag....I wasn't offering! Honestly, some people.

 

This lunchtime I'll be venturing back into the bar for some much needed scoff. Luckily, after a weekend that was little RTFQs equivalent of the a log run/fan dance combo, the wee guy is sleeping soundly in some nice securely snug black calvins, smelling slightly of scampi and McCoy's flame grilled steak crisps. If I'm quiet he might sleep right through (aaah, look - he's dribbling in his sleep)

'Mary' is working again today, and I'm feeling dangerous. I'm thinking I might don my ron hills and a nice singlet before I go downstairs and order a bratwurst . Even better - I've got one of those 'novelty' (read: "Funny to only the retarded or labotomized") Elephant trunk thongs which I could wear beneath the tracksters. I could ask if she needs a hand with her stockcheck out the back.

Either way I've got to show no fear, if i let her know I'm still embarrassed she'll have me over a barrel. I might go for a few freudian slips: "Hi Mary, goog week-END? I tell you, it's been a HARD ON today, but the boss gave me a good write-up - he said I'm a THRUSTER. Can I come on your t1ts?"

You know, the subtle approach.

 

Christ, you could be a Medic with that subtle approach

 

Well I thought about the immortal line: "look, I've got to get amongst you otherwise Du lai will shove a pacestick up my arrse" but she might be into watching that sort of thing...

Incidentally, if she is into watching that sort of thing, I'm game if you are DL. Only enough to get her roadworthy obviously, then we can go twos up on her, but no goo swapping!

 

Count me in, my pace stick is ready and my todger ain't seen no action (apart from my hand that is ) for a long while

 

RTFQ - Having had some experience of the lovely ladies of the province could you please expand on the the object of your desires virtues.

Just in the interest of the understanding of the whole story of course and nothing to do with the option of knocking one out.

 

Well that feckin backfired.

Went for early scoff because frankly I was too excited to wait – coupled with the fact that I didn’t want to be in the bar in sports kit when the old and bold come in for their lunch. I was walking a highwire though: if I got too excited I might wake little RTFQ up and he would ruin the whole thing. Luckily I made it back to the mess with him still curled up and snoring softly like a content baby Jesus lying in a manger of pubes.

I pulled out my ron hills (the black ones from when I first joined up that are a bit holey and WAY too small) and then started to ponder the timeless Ron Hill dilemma – what to wear underneath?
The elephant thong was just stupid, and boxers were no good because these bad boys are so tight that even skin hugging lucky calvins would make me look like I was wearing a nappy.
So I had only one option. An item I swore long ago NEVER to wear again, even if doing so would precipitate an act of love.

Its existence in my keck drawer is a naafi story in its own right, so I’ll do that one another time. Needless to say it is a DPM thong, bought for me from the US Tshirt-poster-and-random-pant-shop in Sarejevo by an ex of mine. They’re known as my lucky Status Quo’s (all my decent pants are prefixed with the word ‘Lucky’ – it adds a bit of glamour when I talk to the ladies about them), I promise next time I’m bored I’ll explain why, but let’s keep to the point.
Not only would they look good under the ronnies (especially as the tracksters’ gusset is particularly moth eaten and the dpm would show through nicely), but the mere sight of them invokes PTSD-like flashbacks in little RTFQ – he starts frantically trying to burrow towards my perineum, muttering feebly “no, please, not again!” “medic” and “the horror…the horror.” Needless to say the wee guy would be keeping under hard cover as required for the approximately 30 mins.

Or so I thought.

So I make my way down to the theatre of dreams (aka the bar), with my ronnies (feet deployed through foot loops for the extra tight look), a dpm clad right testicle slipping slowly through the gusset and a vaguely stained white tshirt. Mini RTFQ is catatonic with fear. Good.
T1ts start pointing skyward as I walk into the bar: it’s not Mary behind the counter, but ‘Jenny’ our rather large barmaid approaching retirement and death-by-gop. Inexplicably, little RTFQ gave a off a small frisson of energy at that point, I may have to have a word with him about that.
She looked suitably shocked as I ordered my OJ and bar meal and I go and sit down with the telegraph, disappointed that Mary wasn’t here to see me in my glory. Subtly poking my errant knacker back into my ronnies with a couple of deft fingers, then obviously sniffing said fingers to see if I’ll need a shower before Wednesday or not. I get to the end of my OJ and look up just in time to see a vision.
Mary: young, nubile, fresh like a field of mown daisies and probably dripping for me waltzes from the kitchen with my club sandwich. Little RTFQ briefly pokes his head above the parapet and asks me hungrily (and telepathically obviously) “is she for me daddy?” I start humming a certain Quo tune in my mind and he starts cowering at the bottom of the fire-trench again.
I smile sweetly and gaze into her eyes longingly (well, I stare at her chebs) and issue a jaunty, slightly mischievous “Hello! How was the weekend”
She responds flatly with a “Fine”, doesn’t even look at me.
The vision, who in my mind is now nekid except for a liberal splashing of guinness, returns to the bar and takes over from Jenny.
Here’s my chance – I need a new OJ. I stand up with vim and not a little spunk, forgetting the precarious state of my knackers and this time my left testicle falls through the hole like Indiana Jones on a decrepit rope bridge. I stride to the bar and tell her nipples that I’d like an OJ please. Whilst their mum goes about preparing the beverage, I say: “you seem a bit down today, everything alright?”

“Look everything is fine. What are you wearing you eejit?”
Not even a flicker of warmth or humour

“My running gear. I put it on every day, run some water through my hair and pretend to myself that I’ve been for a run – otherwise I forget to shower.”
Not a great line, but it doesn’t even illicit an eye flick. Maybe it’s the ronnies, maybe it’s my testicle hanging one-handed from my gusset…maybe I’m just losing my touch.

Reserve key setting 3G, part 2 OTW

 

message 3G

I retrieve my drink and go to sit down. Here the problems REALLY start. Mini RTFQ loves a challenge. He is at his best when outnumbered and surrounded by thousands of indifferent (and sometimes just plain repulsed) women.
I idly watch her retrieve a pack of KP nuts and slide them across the bar, I wander where her hand has been this weekend. She’s making a point of avoiding looking in my direction. The tease…
Before I know it, little RTFQ is standing proudly, redcoated and pith-helmeted in the midday light, like Lt Gonville Bromhead standing atop the mealy bag wall at Rorke’s Drift, webley in hand, ready to receive the onslaught.

Oh dear.

Ronhills and thong are not Debrett’s etiquette guide’s recommended garments in which a gentleman should get a stonk. Almost immediately the two vestments billowed out like a rigid spinnaker and a ‘U’ shaped gap appeared, through which RTFQ glared at me, imploring “come on, rub some spit on my head and let’s get stuck in!”

Just as my boss and a female major from down the corridor bring their salads over and sit in front of me.

“Hello RTFQ, just going for a run?” asks my Lt Col boss. I managed to quickly pull the folded telegraph over my crotch. “No sir, physio this arfternoon” good blag RT, still sharp.

“Finished with the telegraph?” asks the female major.
Oh fcuk. I glance down at the front page. Little RTFQ is trying to punch through the chest of a hard-hatted Iraqi like Sigourney Weaver’s nemesis offspring, screaming “Who’s the major? Can I keep her?”
“Not read it myself yet, sorry” - good, this is what you do, big man, keep your eye in, adapt and overcome. I open the paper up

“Where the flying fcuk is page 3?” shrills little RTFQ “I want t1ts! T1TS! Are you gay?”

My boss asks me a work question, an offence attracting a fine normally, but not one I’m going to point out to my boss while my c0ck is pointing at him shouting “You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth! I eat my breakfast 300 yds from 4000 Cubans trained to kill me…..” I stifle him with world news.

I answer my boss’s question, in fact I do a good job of conversation considering the fact that in my mind, Mary is standing on the bar behind him, pouring the water from the ice bucket down her head and white bloused chest. She’s swirling her wet hair around and is not wearing a bra. Little RTFQ is shouting encouragement and holding fistfulls of dollar bills up to slip into her pant elastic. I will make it out of here….

Then the telephone goes, the bar is full, it won’t be for me.

Jenny says “…one sec, I’ll ask. Is Capt RTFQ in the bar?” You. Have. Got. To. Be. Fcuking. SH1TTING. ME!

“Oooh, telephone!” shouts little RTFQ with glee, he likes the phone for some reason (incidentally, never use the phone after me, especially after a few weeks on exercise.) No way am I getting up and walking across this room with HIM hanging out of my pants declaring: “I’m Spartacus!”

“Can you take a message and I’ll call them back after I’ve finished my meal?” A couple of forlorn pieces of lettuce sit on my plate, I finished my sandwich ages ago.

Ok, I get a few sh1tty looks from people who clearly think I’m a lazy git, but I survive. I spend the rest of lunch calming little RTFQ down with the crossword. He’s not the brightest so soon gets bored, which is luck as I can’t really think and have a hard on at the same time.

 

Fiction is acceptable at this point unless you can snap a quick polaroid without her noticing. Maybe even show her the site and she may willingly provide a full photo shoot to enhance her new found fame.

My mind drifts to an exceptionally dirty (imagination running wild) creature who worked in a mess I used to frequent in Fallingbostel.

As PMC they were some of the best bar stock checks I have ever been involved in.