Sexcapades - The Insta-shitter
My birthday eve started off like any good Saturday should. Pre drinking with the gals was going swimmingly, and as usual, we took things a little too far. After a few hours of screaming our lungs out to whatever song shuffled on Spotify, we dozed off to town, ready for a vigorous night of sitting down in the clubs and eyeing boys up from across the room.
It was at this moment our eyes locked. Oh boy, this moment sent me into a dogged frenzy. After five minutes of being with my group, I had sneakily table hopped and ended up chatting a storm with this talk dark, and don’t forget handsome young lad.
You know how the story goes, two hours of smalltalk pass and I finally convince him to ditch his friends and come back to mine. Things started off pretty well, a cheeky drunken hook-up, but unfortunately the whiskey had made its way to his cock and he was as limp as an overcooked noodle.
As the gentle-women I am, I yarned with him for a while, made sure his fragile ego wasn’t broken, and we nodded off together. I was the big spoon.
A couple hours later, I heard a peculiar struggle in the hallway of my flat. I called out to see if he was okay, he quickly rustled back to bed and in my drunken state I didn’t question a thing. The morning rolls around and I’m by myself, the bastard has scurried off in shame. Fair enough.
After an hour and a half lying in my bed, feeling sorry for myself because I didn’t get any dick, a smell violently invades my nostrils. I perk up and follow the trace, leading with my nose like one of them tracker dogs. My eyes can’t find the culprit, but the ol trusty nose leads me directly to the 1900’s persian rug my parents let me borrow. I lift the corner of the rug and the smell intensifies. This limp dicked man had shit in the middle of my hallway, and tried to cover it up.
In a rage induced text I press him, asking why the fuck he would do such a thing. This was his response:
“I have a private instagram where I document the shits I take at girls flats, sorry.”