Becky

I decided to make the long, arduous journey to Nottingham to visit my friend, Crouch, at university. We didn't have anything special planned - just having a curry, getting pissed and hanging out with his girlfriend and whoever else wanted to come along. It turned out a girl called Becky was keen to come over and join in the fun, so said she'd come round. In the interim, I gleaned several facts about this girl from Crouch:

1) She was was a goer
2) She was single
3) She had massive tits

Sure enough, she showed up when we were all reasonably sozzled, and true to Crouch's word, had fantastic tits and a great figure. Think Kelly Brook and you're not far off. Sadly, this dribble-inducing recipe was ruined somewhat by her face. To be brutally honest, she was a 3 or a 4 out of 10. The best way to describe her facial appearance would be to think of a hamster that's had its face flattened by an iron. I suppose, if you were feeling generous and concentrated extremely hard, you could convince yourself that she was average-looking and that anyway, it didn't matter because of That Body.

I, however, did the easy alternative to mental exercise and got supremely shit-faced (helped by Crouch's girlfriend giving me half a bottle of Southern Comfort because I "look like a Southern Comfort drinker". Bitch) and stared at her cleavage all night. Somehow, this yielded incredible results.

It all kicked off when Crouch and his girlfriend left the room for all of about 5 minutes, whereupon this girl launched herself at me. I have no idea how it happened, or why, only seconds before, I'd been watching a Bon Jovi video on Youtube, but one minute I was minding my own business watching some hair metal, the next I had a girl trying to suck my face off. At this point, utterly fucked, I sensibly decided to consult with my brain's senior management and assess the situation. After all, whilst she was fit, she was also reasonably ugly, and I was drunk and liable to make poor decisions. It was only after I'd removed her bra and seen just how sumptuous here breasts were that I realised how right my senior management had got it.

I don't know how many times we shagged, but it was a lot. More importantly (at least, to the comedy of the situation), I awoke not in Crouch's room (where I shagged her the first couple of times), but in his mate's room (who was away for the weekend). So to recap, I'd shagged a girl in my mate's bed and then, not satisfied with this level of behaviour, shagged her in the bed of some poor chap I'd never even met before. I didn't mind though - the next morning, being sober enough to actually fully enjoy it, I shagged her again.

What a weekend.