Quote[/b] (Slipperduke @ Aug. 14 2006,14:45)]Jeez, some pretty bad ones there. But I doubt you'll find a bigger nutter than my ex-girlfriend, The Greek.
To be fair to her, she was very good-looking and she had a cracking arse. When I met her I thought to myself, 'with a face like that, it doesn't matter what her personality's like!' Oh, how wrong I was.
The first few weeks of our relationship were idyllic. She was bubbly and effervescent, so full of life and fire. Every evening with her was exciting. She liked going to parks in the middle of the night, watching erotic french films and drinking red wine. I thought she was perfect.
I first noticed that things were amiss when I woke up in the night and found that she'd gone to sleep clutching my balls. Paging Dr Freud, clear your diary this one may take some time.
Then she started hitting out at me for having female friends. A couple of days later she lambasted me for having female housemates. Before long, she was hurling volcanic mediterranean tantrums if I so much as spoke to another female. This was tricky, particularly if we went to a pub with just barmaids and no barmen. I'm not kidding, she had a go at me for talking to the barmaid when all I said was, "a pint of lager and a red wine, please."
But, hey. The sex was absolutely mind-blowing, so I let it ride. She was five years younger than me and she wanted to be taught new positions, new styles, new tricks. We played porno-bingo, where you have to copy whatever happens on the screen. At one point, I was convinced she was going to call in her female housemate to help out on one tricky, lesbian scene. What a woman!
She started to accuse me of having affairs with my housemates, even though they were living in the house with their boyfriends.
Friends of mine had started to 'have words' with me about her. Apparently, they thought she was completely bonkers. I guess it didn't help that she was from a part of Greece very close to the Bulgarian border, giving her an accent like a Bond badgirl. It's hard to sound sane when you say things like, "Darlink, vye are you doin-k this to me?"
We continued on our headlong trail of amazing sex and stonking arguments for about three months before I finally blew for full-time. That's really where the trouble started.
Texts, phonecalls, that was just an appetiser. Though I particularly liked the one that said, "u r a sh!t, ur a fcking sh!t and i hop you di". About a week after we broke up I got a text at midnight saying, "It is peaceful here, the leaves are like a carpet."
What on earth does that mean, I wondered, pacing up and down my bedroom. The leaves? My God, She must be outside somewhere. I opened the window, and sure enough, there she was; sat in the middle of a leaf-strewn road eating biscuits.
This carried on for a few weeks, before it gradually scaled down into abusive phonecalls, then just abusive texts and then nothing.
And then she phoned to say that she had Chlamydia.
f%&k, I thought. I must have given it to her. She's in her early 20s, I'm not. It's bound to have been me. It's like when a policeman talks to you and you automatically assume that you've done something wrong.
I went to the clinic and told them what had happened. Yes, they said. If she's got it, you probably have. "Drop your trousers," she said. Yup, 'she said'. It was a lady doctor.
I dropped them and she started examining my penis. That's a very odd situation, I assure you. She poked it, prodded it, pushed it and pulled it and then said, "I can't see anything."
"Well, I'm a bit nervous and it's quite cold in here," I stuttered.
"No," she said and looked at me sympathetically. "I mean, I can't see any infection. No matter. We'll do all the tests and make sure."
I had to drop my trousers and think of England. Those of you that have had a sex test will know what I mean when I talk about the Cocktail Umbrella.
My penis took one look at it and just shrivelled up. When a doctor is about to insert something down the eye of your penis, the last thing you want is for it to shrink.
I couldn't look. I'm not that brave. It felt like the doctor was pouring broken glass and lava down the end of my knob. I may have shed a tear.
As the umbrella came back out again, my poor punished penis went into convulsions. It was like a landed fish, flapping about desperately. And then they had to do it again to make sure. And then I had to go for the most painful wee of my life to give them a urine test. Christ, it was horrible.
Two weeks later the surgery got in contact. I was all clear. The doctors were confused at how I'd managed to have so much sex with a Chlamydia sufferer and not get infected.
I wasn't.
I remember her asking me, very early on in our relationship, if I'd had a sex test recently. "No," I laughed. "My mate had one a year ago and he said it was agony! There's no way I'm putting myself through that!"
The evil bitch. She never had Chlamydia at all.
Still, did I mention that she had a cracking arse?
