I guess the two times myself and a fuckbuddy tried dogging, and failed are sort of embarrassing. By failed I mean we went to known dogging spots, some place near Brighton and Boxhill, but nobody else turned up.
Maybe following online reviews of dogging spits was our mistake. Maybe they were fake reviews made up by someone who gets off on strangers sexual disappointments.
Met a 70 year old man to engage in BDSM with, while naked and chained to a bed and having hot wax dripped on my arse, I told him it wasn't for me. He was very understanding, though he laid on top of me for a few minutes before unchaining me. Looking back, it was mental for me to go to the house of a stranger and make myself so vulnerable. He could have raped and killed me if he was that way inclined.
>>450410 I know this story. Have you shared it with us before?
>He could have raped and killed me if he was that way inclined.
Honestly the chances are basically nil. If only people weren't so worried then this sort of stuff would happen much more frequently and there'd barely be any more rape-cum-murders.
>>450410 You might as well say it's mental to walk along a train platform because a crazy person might push you onto the tracks. If someone really wants to do that you probably can't do anything to stop it. What's mental is worrying about vanishingly rare events. Stop being such a woman.
Another story that's been told here before, albeit a long time ago, and I just visited my parents last week so this story was fresh in my mind.
When I was in Year 10 and having a solo-sexual awakening, there was one evening where I was having a wank in the bathroom. It was dark outside, and I had the light on and hadn't shut the blinds. All the neighbourhood kids were outside, and the frosted glass did little to obscure what I was doing.
My dad saw them all in the street looking up towards our house and laughing, and came upstairs, catching me in the act, and telling me the situation. Before I'd even started to process the horror, he told me to go out the back and jump in the boot of the car. He drove me a few streets down, had me jump out and get in the passenger seat, then drove me home again, making it look like I hadn't been home so couldn't possibly have been whacking off in the bathroom window.
He told me that if they brought it up, I could tell them it must have been him, but when the time came I couldn't do that and fessed up.
Recently I've been wondering about that shared house I lived in where the landlords mysteriously knew where I'd left my drugs, coming over for a surprise inspection on a day I happened to be out. Housemates let them in, not knowing their rights and they were very angry to find I'd happened to lock my bedroom door so they couldn't get in there. They stopped trying to find excuses to kick us out after I started regularly bringing attractive women back for athletic, drug-fuelled sex. This could be paranoia but I suspect there's some grainy footage floating about somewhere of my exploits.