Between the ages of 12 and 16, I was a painfully shy, yet hormonally active boy who wore contraceptives on his face. They were called NHS Glasses - for those unfamiliar with such devices, imagine wearing the word "VIRGIN" balanced on your nose, the letters made out of cheap brown plastic and held in place by wire behind your ears. Now imagine walking up to a woman, both of you painfully sober, whilst wearing this big ugly proclamation of your sexual inadequacy, and trying to seduce her. "An easy task" I hear you say, now that you're 28 and most of the women you speak to have had a decade of Cosmo and L'Oreal ads sarcastically beating into them that, while they may be "worth it", they are also pug-ugly and risking a barren life of cats and cellulite if they don't find a man - any man - by the age of 30. Back then it was a different story, especially when everything you knew about seduction was gleamed from "Knight Rider" and the 42nd minute of "Lethal Weapon 2" (mmmm, Patsyyyy....). It didn't help that my haircuts were always administered by my squinting, flustered mother. I'll never forget her little berkleymenthol-stained tongue poking out as she slowly outstretched her arm to decimate my fringe using her mammoth sewing scissors. Sweating and shaking slightly, as if she were trying to decide whether it's the blue wire or the red wire she's supposed to cut. Needless to say, it was a while before women started noticing me. To this day my first reaction to an offer of carnal pleasure is one of huge relief - I often have to supress the urge to punch the air and shout "SKILL!" - and a feeling similar to that you get when the egg-ops bring out a fresh tray of succulent bacon after you've been waiting in line for ages: scoff it quick before anyone notices and takes it from you. This roundabout of embarrassing confessions brings me to the point of my thread: I'm sad to say that i have often forsaken basic principles of hygiene in my urgency to get a root. From what I know of you lot, I'm probably not alone. To begin with I was especially attentive to personal cleanliness. In fact, in my late teens I wouldn't think of entering frenulum-to-vulva combat unless I had dispensed the entire contents of a Hai Karate Xmas pack across my body. But the rot, so to speak, set in early. Even the average day in this mob can leave you absolutely filthy. An inadvertent Rupert moment on the vehicle park involving vehicle paint and spillsorb, followed by a muddy 'shortcut' on the way to the garrison conference facilty for a bde O Group, followed in turn by a sweaty afternoon spent shifting camnets from one place to another, all conspire to leave you looking like a cross between an end-shift coal miner and the splattered backplate of a curryhouse toilet. i'm ashamed to say that if I got back to my room and found, perhaps, a young lady in a state of dishevelment, then the last thing on my mind was a shower. Not only would I be prematurely counting my chickens, but I'd be dressing them up as little french maids and having me a 12-way chicken gang-bang before anyone finds a way to stop me. You see, there comes a point whereby something pretty major has to happen for two people NOT to have sex â a woman tearing off your rancid junglies is unlikely to put a hold on her desire just because she sees an OMD80-smudged nipple. No, it would take something serious, like â as she pulls the shirt away she sees a huge tattoo across the torso of Ferne Cottonâs head impaled on a spike, with the words âOnly God Shall Judge Meâ emblazoned above it, thatâd kill her ardour in its tracks. Unfortunately, over the years, Iâve really pushed the limits of that decision point. In the good old days, at the end of Exercises, thereâd be a coach or at least a 4 tonner to deposit you back at your accom/quarters once you got off exercise/ops. Due to cutbacks, it is now permitted to let your other halves pick you up from Brize/the camp gates/QMs dept. Works fine for seasoned camp-followers, they know that the amorphous mass of sweat, cordite and encrusted y-fronts is not her husband, but some slumbering swamp beast, until she gets him in the bath for a couple of hours. Brand-new civvy girlfriends do NOT know that, however. If youâve managed a quick splash of water over your face/neck/ballsack in the m-way service toilets, your smock can hide the heady smells of tessex in Kenya. All she sees is the spunkbag of a boyfriend she fell in love with in Owls Nitespot, but this time dressed like action man. Thereâs no holding these lustful harridans back, before you can say âhang on love, itâs a bit ripe down thereâ sheâs got the little guy out and is about commune with him. The look on her face as she pulls his hoody back and the smegma erupts like insulation from a fucked roof, is a keeper. You also know itâs love if she pauses for only a heartbeat, then chows down regardless. Bill Oddies everywhere owe a great deal to a certain early nineties edition of More magazine that included the advice âif the taste isnât to your liking, lots of saliva normally masks itâ. Iâm sure that works for some strawberry mivvyâs J.T. when it tastes of urinal cakes and Burtons underwear, but Iâd put money on it doing feck-all for 6-week old BATUS cockrot. Iâll hand the floor to the naafi, I canât be alone in finding sex more enjoyable when I smell like a Macedonianâs skip.