It was 1990. My dad, who was young at the time, got drunk in the village with some buddies and, somehow failing to make it all the way home, fell asleep next to a haystack. In the morning, he woke up to the sound of people talking as they walked past. As they drew closer, he recognized them—they were deceased acquaintances of his, and they were debating whether or not to take him with them. «No, it’s too early for him yet; let's keep going!» By that evening, an elderly man in the village had passed away. Since that moment, my dad hasn't touched alcohol again. And to this day, he recalls that encounter with sheer horror.
I never knew what to get my girlfriend; I have a terrible imagination and absolutely no creative flair. Her birthday was approaching, so I really needed to come up with something. A female friend of mine came to the rescue, suggesting I get her a high-tech vibrator—the idea being that it would keep her from getting lonely whenever I wasn't around. So, that’s exactly what I did. My girlfriend stayed with me for another month after that… and then decided to dump me. Apparently, I chose a gift that was a little *too* high-tech—seeing as it ended up doing a better job than I did...
Do you want to know how I learned to swim? We owned an old car. No one had driven it in ages, even though it was still in working order. Then, one day, my dad and I decided to take it out for a spin and drive it down to the river. I was sitting in the front seat. Dad sped up and drove the car straight into a river—with the doors and windows still shut. He told me, «If you want to live, you'll swim out,» and then he fucking bailed out of the car (to this day, I have no fucking clue how he did it—what kind of magic was that?). Naturally, I was absolutely fucking stunned, but somehow, I managed to scramble my way out. After that incident, Mom filed for divorce.
I was trying on jeans at a store, and I really, really wanted to fart. Then I had a thought: *What if I buy these jeans, only to find out someone else has already farted in them?*… I never did buy those jeans.
Every time I jerk off, I involuntarily point my feet like a fucking ballerina—practically bending them backward, at an angle of over 180 degrees; my heel almost touches my shin. I don't even notice I'm doing it until I finally cum. But then comes the hard part: I can't painlessly return my feet to their normal position. So there I lie, splayed out like a compass, slowly inching my feet back into place, gritting my teeth against the pain. I’m terrified that one day I’ll just snap my ankles right off from sheer arousal—yet I keep right on pleasuring myself. Afterward, I can't even walk for half an hour.
I recently buried my best friend. He was walking home from the store when he took a bad fall. His ribs hurt terribly; the pain was so severe he couldn't even cough, and breathing was agonizing. All the signs pointed to a clear rib fracture, but he wasn't in any rush to see a doctor—he kept putting it off until later. He put it off once too often… Sometime during the night, he must have shifted into an awkward, incorrect position, and a shard of the broken bone punctured his lung. In the morning, his mother went to wake him up, only to find him lying in bed, blue in the face… If he had sought medical help right away, he would have pulled through; instead, he now lies in the cemetery, wrapped in the cold earth.
I work as a cashier. During a particularly hectic rush, I blurted out something to a male customer—instead of the standard «Have a nice day!»—that went something like, «May God grant you good health!» The look he gave me… «Amen,» the man replied, then hurried toward the exit, glancing back over his shoulder with a look of sheer apprehension.
My girlfriend and I were having sex. We were just moments away from the finish line. And right at that moment, she sneezed. The sudden jolt caused her vaginal muscles to contract. Caught completely off guard, I ended up finishing right inside her. Now we’re walking around, totally on edge, anxiously waiting for her PMS to kick in.
Our whole family recently moved to a new country. We found an apartment right in the city center—it’s surrounded entirely by high-rises, and our windows look directly out onto the windows of the building across the street. One day, quite by accident, I noticed an elderly man in the window across the street. He was intently watching the tourists strolling along the boulevard; I could see the old guy from the waist up, and his right hand was hanging down, moving vigorously. Holy shit… Just imagine—you’re out for a nice evening stroll, and someone is jerking off to you from a window. I really don't think it was Parkinson's.
My husband once witnessed a conversation like this. An American and an Englishman were arguing over who actually won World War II. The American insisted that *they* did, while the Englishman argued it was the Russians. Unable to hold back, a German man finally chimed in and said, «Why are you guys even arguing? The Russians won.» To which the American retorted, «And what gives *you* the right to butt in? How the hell would *you* know?»
Other Trash Stories
So, there was this one time I went on an «extreme» date—one I might not have even made it back from alive… It was around 2010, the heyday of facebook. I was messaging back and forth with this gorgeous girl on there when she wrote:
«I’m just so sad at home right now… so lonely...»
Now, being the «knight» that I am—or so I thought—I immediately replied:
«Hey, tell you what: I’ll come over with some cognac; you whip up something to eat, and we’ll have a good time.»
She shot back: «Let's do it!»
I was a starving student at the time, so—anticipating both food and romance, and not wanting to jinx such a stroke of luck—I spruced myself up, put on some cologne, donned a pair of clean underwear, and drove all the way across town to her place...
I arrived. The door opened; a mysterious silhouette slipped into the kitchen, and I heard:
«Go on into the living room, sit down—make yourself at home.»
And there, laid out on the table, was a spread: sausage, cheese, potatoes!
I set down my bottle of cheap, bootleg «Ararat» brandy (the three-star variety) and thought to myself:
«Any minute now, I’ll get to eat… and get to the 'other stuff' with that beauty, too. What a lucky guy I am...»
BUT!
Into the room walked a woman twice my age—with fried-looking dyed-red hair and a stretched-out tank top—looking utterly unkempt.
I just stood there:
«Um… hello? Where’s Sveta?»
(I think that was her name.)
She replied:
«Don't take this the wrong way, but *I’m* Sveta. The photos online aren't actually me—because if I’d used my real ones, you never would have shown up...»
By that point, however, the smell of food had already gone to my head, so I decided:
«Ah, screw it. I’ll stay anyway—at least I’ll get a meal out of it. Then I’ll bail.»
We sat down, had a drink or two, and I started absolutely pigging out on the sausage. Meanwhile, she began telling me the story of her life—and with every passing sentence, her spirits sank lower and lower, until she finally burst into tears. Then she started openly biting her nails, and suddenly she turns to me…
I remember it like it was yesterday: she was tear-stained, a snot bubble was inflating right out of her nose, and she said—in this sultry, languid tone:
«KISS ME.»
Total shock. I started trying to backpedal, mumbling something about how we were just friends...
With every excuse I offered, her eyes seemed to fill with blood.
At one point, she leaped up, grabbed a massive dirk that was hanging next to a portrait of her sailor grandfather, stood right over me, and screamed:
«DO YOU WANT ME TO SHOW YOU—RIGHT NOW—JUST HOW LONELY I AM?!»
And she took a swing!
They say that right before you die, your whole life flashes before your eyes; but for me, only one thought flashed through my mind:
«I’ve really done it this time… Oh God, please don't let me end up on the 'Crime News.' It’s always just drunk stabbings on there—Mom would see it on TV… what a shameful way to go...»
She stood there with the knife—seething, trembling.
I sat in the armchair—terrified, with a mouthful of half-chewed sausage and underwear that was no longer exactly clean—and switched into «therapist mode»:
«Alright… show me. But hey, let's have one more shot first, okay?»
She let out a breath and sat back down—though the knife was still clutched in her hand.
«Will you stay the night?» she asked.
I told her I would; I promised her the moon—all while pouring the drinks.
And the moment she started to take a sip, I seized the opportunity—and couldn't think of anything better to do than simply tip her over, chair and all, onto the floor.
She hit the ground like a sack of potatoes, rolled under the radiator, and let out a hiss:
«PRAY FOR YOUR LIFE, YOU BASTARD!» I grabbed my backpack with my teeth, tucked my brand-new Nikes under my arm, and bolted down the hallway—all while praying to every god imaginable that her door wouldn't have some stupid, finicky lock.
Because if it did, I’d be absolutely screwed—riddled with stab wounds and serving as the dramatic footage for the evening news.
But no—I got lucky.
Having miraculously managed to get the door open, I ran home barefoot and scared shitless.
I didn't make it back until nearly dawn.
My friend was visiting when I got there—the same guy I’d bragged to earlier that night, boasting that I was heading out on a date where I was definitely going to get laid.
And he delivered the final blow with a single question:
«So? How’d it go? Did you get laid?»
A friend of mine has an amusing little family tradition. Every morning, he calls his wife by a different name—and then refers to her by that name for the entire day. His wife has gotten used to it by now and answers to every name he uses...
Sometimes, after my wife gives me a blowjob, I’ll say to her: «You may spit it out now!» I’m a dentist.
A friend of my wife’s left her husband and ended up living alone in a rented apartment with her one-year-old daughter—all because a fortune teller predicted that she would soon find a different, more successful husband. She’s been living like that for seven years now, still waiting.
I only know this story from what my mom told me; it happened at her workplace. A quiet, unassuming woman managed to make her boss fall in love with her—but then she let it slip that she had used love spells to do it. She and the boss got married, but just six months later, she started cheating on him with a young security guard. She talked the guard into murdering her husband—who was also her boss, of course. He strangled the man with a garrote in the apartment building’s stairwell. Afterward, she turned the guard in to the cops herself, acting as if she had absolutely nothing to do with it. She then proceeded to grab all of her husband’s assets for herself. However, before she even had a chance to sell any of it, she was accidentally struck and killed by a car.
I used to love having a good laugh at YouTube videos featuring «parking masters» and other so-called «kings and queens of the road.» But I recently got my own driver's license—and now I just don't understand why people have to be so cruel to us...
I was standing out on my balcony this evening, looking across at the windows and balconies of the building opposite me. Suddenly, I spotted a guy and a girl standing out on their balcony. They were naked. And the girl was giving the guy a blowjob. The guy must have noticed me, because he pulled his cock out of her mouth and waved it at me.
I accidentally broke my boyfriend’s guitar. He’s currently away on a trip and doesn’t know the news yet. I’ve decided I need to come up with a quick cover story—and fast. I found a guitar just like the one I wanted, but I didn't have the money for it… I borrowed the cash from a friend, and in exchange, he suggested that instead of paying him back, I should try a threesome—me, him, and his girlfriend. I thought it over for a while and agreed. Now I'm sitting here, staring at this guitar, and feeling like a total sellout slut...
I work as a flight attendant. I’m having a sexual relationship with one of the pilots. And get this: I give him a blowjob while he’s at the controls. The adrenaline rush is insane. Afterward, I just calmly step out to attend to the passengers. Sometimes I even go back and do it again. I love my job.
I was having sex with my mistress. I wanted to go down on her, but she wouldn't let me. She said that territory belongs to her husband.
My girlfriend has picked up a new hobby: sexually teasing me while we’re out in public, and then mocking me as she watches me suffer with a hard-on inside my jeans. So, I got a life-sized, anatomically correct model of an erect penis and made her wear the thing inside her panties for a while. That certainly cured her of the urge to torment me. Now, however, she dreams of making me wear a bra filled with water balloons so I can find out just how much a pair of breasts actually weighs—even though I’ve never teased her about it, and her chest isn't particularly large anyway. In fact, I actually prefer a smaller, neater bust, so I’ve never even wished for hers to be any bigger.
My husband and I decided to try out a little roleplay: the «cowgirl» fantasy. The idea was for me to ride him—specifically, on his face. We ended up getting so carried away that he walked away with a broken nose and a knocked-out tooth, while I ended up needing stitches *down there*. We’ve decided not to experiment like that anymore.
My husband is incredibly jealous! And not just when it comes to other men—he’s jealous of *everyone*! Since our baby arrived, he’s been insisting that I give all my breast milk to *him* and feed the baby formula instead. He claims he won't let a single drop of «me» go to another male. It’s a bit strange, I admit… but I actually kind of like it.
Other Trash Stories
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