Yes it’s another ‘Long Tall Ally has a silly house story’, but it’s a good’un involving my right pointer finger and a fanny that wasn’t mine.
Wind the clock back to those heady days circa 2003/4 when I was living in a city centre house share (incidentally the same one where the ‘Suicidal Smack Rat’ event occurred) with a chap who shall be known as ‘Hairdresser’ for the purposes of this blog because he drove a hairdresser’s car. Life was good, sure our landlord was a miserable Scottish bastard and the kitchen was being renovated for the best part of a year but the house backed onto a pub and nightclub, we had a big telly and had curry a lot, what more could we want?
What I could want was for Hairdresser to not leave his dirty laundry in a huge pile on the kitchen floor for days, sometimes weeks on end without either putting it in the wash or back in his room. One particular afternoon I was on the hunt for anything belonging to Hairdresser’s recently ex girlfriend (who was a friend of mine) as she was convinced she’d left all sorts behind in her haste to get rid of him.
My eyes alighted on the dreaded laundry pile, could Hellephump (the ex) have left clothing here? Wishing I had a clothes peg for my nose I gingerly had a nose through the pile, coming across a bag filled with women’s underwear. It had to be Hellephump’s right? RIGHT? Trying to overcome the feeling I was about to rootle through her dirty underwear I grabbed a wodge to see if any of it had her name on it (ex boarding school girl, name tags on EVERYTHING!) and underneath saw what I thought was a water tube toy like this
I’d had one when I was a kid and loved sqooshing it through my hands and sticking my finger in the middle and letting it gloop round it. I grabbed the red tube and thrust my finger in the end without thinking twice. Hmm thought I, this doesn’t feel quite right it’s not smooshy and gloopy…
I glanced down and saw a hooded clitoris winking back at me, somewhere above the knuckle of my index finger. The time it took for my brain to register that I didn’t have my finger inside a water toy but had just rammed a digit up a plastic fanny was FAR TOO LONG. I eventually shrieked like a banshee, wrenched my finger out, stuffed the whole lot back into the grimy carrier bag and fled, to disinfect my finger. Life between the Hairdresser and I became rather awkward after that, I mean how do you tell someone you’ve found their plastic fanny and stash of women’s underwear?