TMI Thursday: The Shaking of the Bed

If this does not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories, then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!

Today is a friend of mine's birthday. Therefore, I shall tell you the most inappropriate story I think I can get away with. You see, when I was a sophomore in college, I roomed with said individual for a semester. We got along fairly well. We were friends, we kept to ourselves, we didn't annoy one another, and we had vastly different schedules.

Now, I'll preface this by telling reminding you, I jerked off a lot before I landed that sweet piece of redheaded Notre Dame undergraduate ass that I now call a wife. So, it's not like I'm casting the first stone here. I just jerked off when my room mates weren't in the room with me.

Anyway, in the room I shared with my friend, I had the bottom bunk, mostly because I had the room first and I'm somewhere around six four. With size fourteen shoes.

*ahem* Ladies. *tips cap*

Not to get off on too long and girthy of a tangent, I woke up one morning and something didn't seem right. Mostly because it seemed like the world was trembling. Not living in a fault zone, I wondered just what the fuck was happening when suddenly I realized that only the bed was shaking, and not the entire world.

And the mattress above me was the source of the shake.

My eyes grew wide as realization set in as to what was going on above me. I closed my eyes and willed myself to fall back asleep. However, try as I might, there was no return to dreamy happy land in the cards for me. So, I lay there during the entire event. At one point, someone next door opened a door, and my friend sat bolt upright in bed, because it sounded as if someone had opened our door. It was at that point that it was confirmed in my mind as to what was happening in the bed above.

Finally, he finished up, and only then did my mind allow me to fall back asleep. So, I slept fretfully for another hour until my alarm went off and away I went on my morning routine. My room mate was still in bed, now asleep.

The day passes and finally, it's the evening. I decide that I cannot keep this secret to myself anymore, so I head over to Scooter's room, where he and Young Bob are watching a movie.

"Guess what happened in my room this morning?" I said, only after hastily shutting the door behind me.

"What?" they both asked.

"I woke up, and the bed was shaking." I put a meaningful look into the last word. For a second, comprehension was lost on both of them. It was kind of cool because I could almost see the lightbulb turn on above their heads at the same time.

"Ooooooooooooooohhhhh!" they said in unison.

"Are you going to call him on it?" Young Bob asked me.

I shook my head. "I jerk off plenty. Just usually when he's not there."

Scooter thought that this was the mature thing to do. So, I dropped it, kind of put it out of my mind.

That is, until the next morning. And the morning after that. And the morning after that.

For a solid week, I woke up earlier than normal only to find the bed shaking. Toward the end of the week, it just became amusing. I tried not to giggle. I did think about kicking the mattress once and yelling out "hurry it up". I didn't, though. I'm classy like that.

And then, I never woke up to that again. It was all very odd.

Fast forward about a year. Young Bob is hanging out in Scooter's room again (it was a common place to convene in the evenings) and my friend slips into the room. And, for some reason, he's in full-on confession mode. So, he starts telling them about all of his masturbatory habits. How often, whom he thinks about, which hand he uses...pretty much everything. But then, here's the clincher: my friend then tells Young Bob and Scooter about how he's amazed that he's never been caught.

Young Bob and Scooter lose it. They just start laughing right there. I think they covered it by telling him "Good job, good job. That's a lot of work to not get caught."

But they knew. And, as soon as I came by after working in the computer labs, they needed to divulge this little tidbit of information to me, as well. We all had a hearty laugh over that. None of us admitted to my friend, however, that I woke up several mornings with the bed shaking and just never said anything to him.

The one thing that we still wonder about, though: where did he keep it after he was done and presumably messy?

TMI Thursday: My First Time

In the seventh grade, I had two really good friends: Josh and Shannon. Shannon was Josh's cousin, and one night, Josh had both of us over for a sleepover. It was awesome. We played Nintendo. How fucking cool was that?

Josh's dad had an impressive collection of Playboys. Fortunately for Shannon and myself, they were stashed in Josh's closet. Brilliant move, Mr. Josh's Father. This meant that, while Josh was playing Nintendo, Shannon and I perused the glossy pages of airbrushed sex presented before us.

Eventually, we got around to the topic of masturbation, which was odd, considering we were in seventh grade and, well, talking about shit like that meant you were gay. And, as we were currently perusing Playboys, that meant we certainly weren't gay, right? Anyway, a couple of guys had been caught jerking off in the bathrooms at school (one guy was a repeat offender!), and we talked on this while idly flipping through the good parts of the magazines (the articles, of course). Suddenly, Shannon leaned over to me and, in a conspiratorial tone, said, "Promise you won't tell anyone?"

"I swear," I said, in the same tone. I think I suspected what was to come next.

"I've done it," Shannon said. "A lot."

Gasp and swoon! Well, I held onto the secret for...what...twenty years now? I learned a lot about Shannon that weekend that I probably didn't want to know (you know, kind of like you guys and Thursdays around here!), like how he had phone sex with my cousin Jamie, and how he would get boners when leaning back in his seat in Social Studies. One of the most uncomfortable moments of my life happened when he leaned back one day during class. A few minutes later he looked over at me and gave me a nod. I offered a half-nod back, and suddenly became very interested in South American geography.

As luck would have it, my father also had quite a collection of Playboys. I had smuggled a few into the house and horded them as my own. Despite several people I knew getting caught doing the act, and the secret confessions of a friend during a sleep over, I had yet to venture down that particular avenue, though I kept the magazines and would look at them somewhat often. Despite the fact that I would get raging hard looking at these pictures, I wouldn't seal the deal.

However, learning that Shannon did it softened my resolve (but not my raging hormonal staff) and, late one night when I was certain my brother was asleep, I tried it. Unsure of what to expect, it went something like this:

*stroke*
*stroke*
Nothing.
Wait.
*stroke*
*stroke*
Nothing.
*stroke*
*stroke*
Nothing.
Wait.
Give up.

A few weeks passed after this initial foray into autoerotic enjoyment. My parents went out for a dinner date with my dad's work, leaving me and my two siblings in the able care of my grandfather. This was the same grandfather who taught me that little boys like to pee outside. He was a lovable chap and I certainly enjoyed spending time with him, so I felt a little guilty when I decided that tonight was tonight.

We had a storage room upstairs that was well-away from everywhere else. My parents stored canned fruits and vegetables and various jams and jellies up there. Also, ceramic decorations for various holidays were stowed in that room. Lots of other crap had accumulated, and it was here that my brother and I kind of had a hidden fort. It was also about the only place in the house one could go for some alone time. Sometimes I would go there and read. Tonight, I slipped in there with my illicit booty pilfered from my father's collection.

I remember the Playmate, too--Charlotte Kemp. She was Miss December, 1982. I opened up to her pages and flipped through, finally opening up her centerfold and staring, enraptured, at her naked body. She was a curvy, luscious woman whose hair was tinged with red and she had immensely large breasts and a patch of untamed bush stretching from the middle of her torso to her knees, it seemed. She wore a corset that was temptingly unlaced, some white stockings that reached the middle of her thighs, and heels. I remember the heels keenly because her leg was cocked in such a way that it was not difficult to imagine one of the heels...entering her, for lack of a better term.

And, it drove me wild.

Anyway, as I stared, I started to rub. And rub. And rub. And then, suddenly, oh, hey, wow! I was done. There it sat, in the palm of my hand, the liquid fruits of my labor. It had felt...different...sort of good. Other than that, I don't remember feeling much else. But, I remembered thinking "What do I do with this now?"

Remember how I said the room wasn't used much? Right. I figured no one would notice if I wiped my hand off on the wall. So I did. Right there behind the door where someone would really have to look if they wanted to find it.

Finished, I pulled my pants up, waited a couple of minutes, and went down stairs and spent the rest of the evening with my grandfather. The guilt and anger and hatred didn't hit me until the next morning. That's when I started my Guilt Journal, as I've come to call it.

The stain, as far as I know, still remains. Since the room was little used except for storage, it was never repainted. And, with some of the mason jars being mishandled and breaking, there were lots of other stains on other parts of the wall. Whoever buys my parents house, however, will be getting quite a surprise if they decide to look behind the door. Heh heh heh.

As for Ms. Kemp...I kept the magazine for a few months, using her lovely images to complete my lustful yearnings until one day I was so overcome with guilt and grief that I threw her away along with a couple of the others I had kept. A few years later, I bought a copy of the December 1982 issue of Playboy for nostalgia's sake, but then gave it to my friend Alex when I got married. Still, Charlotte Kemp is one of my all-time favorite Playmates, even though she's looking a little weather-worn these days.


Does this not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories? Then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!

TMI Thursday: The Wearing of the White

Wow, Thursday already? Or again? Or whatever adverb you wanna slap in there? If it's Thursday, it must mean it's time for me to embarrass myself and those nearest and dearest to me. If I can get a few of you to mutter "My God, man, have you no shame?" along the way, then I'll consider that a successful foray into the soft underbelly and dark shadows of my memories.

In college, I seemed to have a propensity toward hanging out with two other friends at the same time. I've told you of some of the shit that my friends Will and Giles and I did together. Today, let's meet another couple of friends, Scooter and Young Bob. Scooter was a short little chap, and quite the dirty birdy, I might add. In those days, it was still difficult to download clips of *ahem* certain types of movies...off the internet. Scooter was my go-to guy. He had a stash of them. Sorority Pink 3 was my favorite.

Young Bob was a local kid (Will actually gave him the moniker 'Young Bob') with a true gift toward using the word fuck and girls with really, really huge cans. He is the one who likes all our pretty songs who introduced me to Clerks and the Askew-niverse that I used to hold near and dear to my heart before Kevin Smith's movies veered toward the unwatchable. He's also the coiner of the oft-uttered "Mother of fuck!".

I've said it before, but it bears repeating: Renssalaer, IN is not the booming metropolis that you might imagine. Oh, sure, it has traffic lights--something noticeably absent in neighboring Newton county--and my beloved alma mater Saint Joseph's College and the Little Cousin Jasper Festival, but aside from the Wagon Wheel bar or Wal-Mart or late-night walks into the town past Dave Chesak's house, there isn't much to do.

Fortunately, a mere 45 minutes in either direction is Lafayette (to the south) or Merrillville/Schererville/Dyer (to the north), where wondrous things known as "book stores" and "malls" and "commerce" exist. Extra fortunately, Scooter owned a car. This meant that we could sally forth on the weekends for a few hours and spend our hard-earned coin look at things we wanted to buy but couldn't. A lot of times, we ended up to the south, in Lafayette and West Lafayette. Being that Purdue is in West Lafayette, there were all sorts of great little shops and stuff sitting next to the campus. We found some excellent used CD shops and a place where I was able to buy a Periodic Table of the Elements t-shirt (the radioactive ones glow in the dark!). Yes, I still own the shirt.

There was also a mall in Lafayette and, next to the mall, was a Barnes & Noble where a friend of mine (whom I had an overactive interest in, we'll say) worked, so we would venture out there from time to time, as well. Behind the mall, however, was a Toys R Us. And behind the Toys R Us was a sex shop.

As far as sex shops go, this was a particularly good one. The guy who worked there recognized us...which is probably where this story should end, but I'll forge ahead. This is the place where I learned that blow-up dolls come in various sizes according to how much weight they can support. I learned about double-headed dildos, browsed through movies wherein every particular fetish one could ever imagine was sated, and I learned a valuable lesson about anal beads: don't yank them like you're starting a lawn mower. Not a first hand experience, mind, but a bit of wisdom that I'll pass along to you all.

The best part about this particular sex shop was the movie booths. Pay a single crisp, green one dollar bill and get access to a booth with a tv running countless channels worth of porn. Much like the movies in the main part of the store, every size, shape, taste, whim, fetish and desire could be found glowing from the small square in the wall. Being pervs, all three, we fed our dollars into the machines and went our separate ways.

I should interject here that, at the time of this story, I had a serious crush on a lovely girl from the South Side of Chicago named Jenny. She had beautiful brown eyes, short, silky brown hair and awesome legs. We had done a few shows together, she liked the same sorts of music and I did, and we just meshed really well. I think there was a time when she liked me, as well, but I was too much of a chickenshit pussy to pull the trigger, and so my love for Jenny went forever unrequited. *insert dramatic sigh here*

Okay, back to the porn.

Beneath the box of glowing sex on the wall were two buttons. You could use these buttons to either scroll forward or back to find the movie that you so desired to watch for however long the dollar bought you. I cruised through the channels, unimpressed by what I saw, until the station lit upon a beautiful, dark-haired, brown-eyed girl. What she was doing (blow job) and what she was wearing (nothing) mattered very little. The thing that mattered most was that here was my Jenny.

"Holy shit!" I bellowed.

"What?" "What?" answered Scooter and Young Bob.

"Come see. Come see this right the fuck now."

Both of my friends burst into the porn booth. Simultaneously, they both uttered, "Holy shit! It's Jenny!"

"You're in love with a porn star!" Young Bob said.

All three of us stood there, awestruck, by this girl. Maybe it wasn't my Jenny, but this girl was more than a mere facsimile. If this wasn't Jenny, then it was her doppelganger. Enraptured, I pulled up the chair provided in the booth and sat down...

...and immediately felt something wet.

"What the fuck?" I said absently, looking down.

"It's called a boner. You get those when you see the girl you're madly in love with being impaled on some guy's dick." Young Bob had a way with words.

"No, what the fuck did I just sit in?" I queried.

"Holy fuck! You just sat in some guy's spooge!" Scooter cried.

It was true. There, across my left ass cheek and down the back of my left leg was a streak of man juice. It was undeniable. I was scarred. It was like I was wearing my own scarlet letter, except it was white. And it wasn't a letter. So, really it was just like I was wearing a giant jizz stain.

Fortunately, my dollar ran out. I never got to see what happened to my Jenny (or her lookalike), but I'm pretty sure I can guess (money shot). Instead, I stood, horrified, as the masculine jelly cooled and congealed upon my shorts.

"Fuck! Now what?" I asked.

"You're not getting back into my car with those on. I have upholstery!" Scooter announced.

"Let's get the fuck out of here and I can figure it out from there," I said, and so we left in short order. On the way out, the guy behind the counter said, "Now, you boys know it's only one to a booth." Then he leaned in, all conspiratorial-like, and uttered just above a whisper, "But since we're buds, I'll let it slide this time." Great. Thanks, chief; you have a heart of pure gold.

We get outside and my only recourse is to remove the soiled pants before I get back in the car. Normally, we always saved the sex shop for last, so we didn't have to rearrange our plans due to my sudden wardrobe malfunction nor did I have to traipse around anywhere with a giant jizz stain on my shorts.

In the car, we're underway, and we hop on the interstate to cruise on back home. It's night, so it's not like anyone can see me hanging out in the back of some other dude's car in just my boxers. However, as we're cruising along, the musky odor of whomever's spuzz I'm carrying on my pants is filling up the interior of the car. I had hoped I could go home and wash the shorts and everything would be cool, since they were my favorite shorts and all. As the odor grew stronger and stronger, I knew there was only one course of action.

"Scoot, roll down the window."

"What? Why?"

"These shorts stink like cum, and I don't want them anymore."

"Fuck. You're going to get me arrested."

"It's night. No one will see."

"He's right," Young Bob added, "That shit's beginning to stink. We have to get rid of it."

So, Young Bob rolled down his window. And I waited for my opportunity. As we crossed the bridge over the mighty Wabash river, I bid my shorts one final good-bye, and chucked them. Softly humming taps, I watched as they disappeared into the darkness, a single flash of green being the only sign that they had ever been there. A second later, and the ordeal was over.

"Now, roll that fucking window back up. It's cold back here and my sack's shrinking."

And that was when I learned yet another valuable life lesson, courtesy of the sex shop: never, ever, NEVER, sit down on one of the chairs in the porn booth. Ever.



Does this not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories? Then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!