Bedding a complete stranger... By mistake.

What happens when you lose track of your hookup in their house? Complete BED-lam.

While I like to think I’m blessed with a least a modest collection of talents and skills, I’m painfully aware that an inbuilt sense of direction is very much not among them. I can - and *have* - managed to inexplicably end up going the wrong way when walking down a perfectly straight road.

This total lack of internal compass is something I’ve learned to live with. I choose to see getting lost as an adventure in itself rather than an irritating digression, albeit mostly as a pitifully self delusional attempt to keep myself sane and justify my inability to arrive anywhere on time. I’m also somewhat aided by the fact that, living as we do in the era where technology is the short term solution to (and frequent cause of) most of life’s problems, my phone can usually keep me pointed in roughly the right direction.

What *doesn’t* help however is that my lack of directional awareness is coupled with such a critical lacking of observational skill as to make me something of a danger to myself. Technically I have 20-20 vision, but I consider that to be the equivalent only in terms to the year 2020; an absolute shit-show. I may be able to *see* perfectly but, crucially, I notice *nothing*. It took me - and I’m not exaggerating this in any way - *THREE WEEKS* to finally spot that a friend I saw on an almost daily basis had acquired a nasal piercing. And even in that instance I cottoned on to the tittering behind my back sooner than I noticed the metallic addition to the *centre of her face*.

The final point of clarification I ought to make before finally sharing this utterly shameful anecdote is that this lack of spatial awareness and observational capacity is exponentially exacerbated by alcohol. Which is to say that, when sufficiently inebriated, I may know exactly where I *want* to be, but wouldn’t necessarily be able to identify how to get there, or even recognise it when I did.

And if that isn’t blatant foreshadowing then I really don’t know what is.

It started, as so many anecdotes do, at a student drinking session. It was just one of many near identical such sessions so i can’t pretend to attach any identifying feature to it; it could just as easily have been celebrating surviving a Thursday as it could have been someone’s birthday. Perhaps one of the student bars had added a new cocktail to the menu, or possibly we were drowning sorrows after one of the group suffered a significant break up. Ultimately, the reason is immaterial. We were drinking to glorious excess and having a thoroughly pleasant time.

Being as I was nineteen and single at the time, soon enough the third pillar of any student night out entered the equation; the immediate and irrepressible urge to get some. Fortunately, the truly wonderful thing about being nineteen and surrounded by students is that almost everyone else seems to be similarly inclined.

Full disclosure; I don’t remember his name, though I’m reasonably sure it began with M. As such, for the purposes of this retelling, I’ll call him Murray since I vaguely recall him mentioning F1 at some point.

Who approached whom and which of us made the first move is sadly lost to the mists of time. It could just as easily have been me as it was him; while I was a great many things aged nineteen - subtle I was most assuredly not.

I do recall that initially we toyed with the notion of simply having a quickie in the toilets but ultimately decided we were both in the mood for something perhaps a little more substantial. Plus he apparently lived relatively nearby so it wasn’t as though we’d have to delay our gratification for long.

We waved goodbye to our friends who told us, in no uncertain terms, to have a lovely evening, and set off to his place which, it transpired, was considerably more of a walk away than he’d lead me to believe. By the time we arrived I already knew this would be no lay’n’leave, I’d be staying until morning.

Now for those of you who are lucky enough to not be intimately acquainted with student housing and accommodation. As a second year university student you are encouraged to move out all halls, and find somewhere to live with fellow like-minded friends. Most university towns and cities are well prepared for this, and offer a vast collection of usually ancient houses crudely adapted to be basically fit for purpose by landlords who wish to make as little effort as possible. They tend to consist of a single shared living space, a handful of often revolting bathrooms, and as many individual bedrooms as can be conceivably crammed into the space. Vague differences in layout aside, one looks much like any other - small corridors, lots of doors and always an unusual smell of damp.

But it mattered not. I wasn’t remotely interested in the decor. By the time we arrived I simply wanted Murray’s tongue inside me. We’d paused several times on the *lengthy* walk to his place in order to kiss in order to try to salvage some sense of building momentum to the stroll, and I’d noted with increasing excitement that his tongue had felt exceptionally dexterous as it in turn tickled and caressed my own. As such, no sooner were we through his front door than we dashed up the stairs, along the surprisingly lengthy landing, and into his room with not a second thought to the surroundings.

His tongue did not disappoint. Perhaps it was the result of the incredibly drawn out build up, or perhaps he’d simply spent a life dedicated to developing that one solitary muscle - certainly he lacked any of note elsewhere - but, whatever the origin, I kept his head clamped between my thighs for longer than most can handle. I’m aware that some guys are given the advice that they should use their tongue to write their name across the clitoris. Murray wrote a short novella. And I writhed and giggled and swore my way through every wonderful moment of it.

When he finally emerged from betwixt my thighs, wearing the almost unbearably smug grin of a man who’d clearly been told more than once how skilled he is in the oral department, I was something of a panting mess. After recovering my senses I made moves to return the favour, readying myself to take his cock in my mouth and soon after take my opportunity to look smug.

Much to my surprise, he stopped me almost immediately.

“I’m not really into blowjobs,” he said, matter-of-factly as he gently pushed me down onto my back, “I’d rather just fuck you instead.”

And with no more ceremony than that, he stuck his cock into me.

To call the sex average would, frankly, be doing perfectly acceptable average sex a disservice. Clearly he had focused *all* his efforts time and attention on cultivating the perfect tongue skills, because when it came to fucking he knew precisely two moves: In and out.

I suggested a change of position but he seemed to be having a lovely time and was in no rush to ‘experiment’. And so missionary sex it was with no variation or distraction or indeed much communication until it neared to a close with him uttering the first full sentence to me since we’d begun;

“Can I cum on your tits?”

I nodded and within moments he’d withdrawn and launched himself up the bed like a leaping seal pup, and slapped his cock down onto my chest. I moved to push my tits together but I’m reasonably sure he’d already started cumming before they made contact with his cock.

For a thin guy, he produced a truly ridiculous volume of cum.

After he finished unloading he un-straddled my chest and collapsed beside me on the bed, taking his turn to be a panting mess.

The very smallest of small talk ensued, but he was exhausted after his strenuous finish and I was both still drunk and somewhat sedated by the tedium of the relentless missionary. Soon enough he’d clambered into bed, and I’d set off to find the bathroom to clean up the excessive mess so that I could soon follow.

I left his bedroom wearing only my underwear, confident that I’d not heard any of his housemates up and about (and not wanting to soil the clothes I’m arrived wearing with the drippy mess that was my chest at the time). I repeated his instruction on how to find the bathroom along the busy corridor over and over in my head until I arrived at the door and discovered to my delight that I’d located it first try - result!

Inside the bathroom I washed myself down, and sat on the toilet for a moment to collect my thoughts. During this momentary pause, I blinked.

Which is to say my eyes closed. But for an indeterminate amount of time. It may have been seconds. It may have been minutes. It may have been longer.

When I opened my eyes I realised immediately what had happened and berated myself for not anticipating it. But I was tired and eager for sleep, so I didn’t give myself too harsh a telling off. I switched off the bathroom light and headed back into the corridor.

Drunk and sleepy, I just wanted to get into bed. So I proceeded down the corridor, the instructions of how to get to the bathroom still mercifully looping round in my head.

Now I can’t pretend to remember what the directions were, but lets for argument’s sake say it was ‘Second door on the left.’

Nice, simple instructions. What could go wrong?

Well reader, my poor drunken sleepy mind was repeating those very same instructions on the way back. But, crucially, what I didn’t think to do was *reverse* them. Because, as those of you with an actual sense of direction - or indeed anyone with any sense full stop - will know, second on the left on the way *there*, is very different to second on the left on the way *back*.

This is blindingly obvious to me now. But in that state on that night it simply didn’t cross my mind. And, as previously noted, all student houses look much the same. So, I stumbled back bleary eyed towards the ‘second room on the left’ without their being the tiniest concern or doubt in my mind.

I *do* recall - although it may be memory cheating and purely hindsight rearing it’s smug head - that when I stepped into the dark bedroom wondering to myself why he’d decided to switch the end of the bed he was sleeping on. Previously he’d been lying with his head to the left end of the bed, now he’d switched to the right. However this was little more than an idly curiosity as I wordlessly clambered under the duvet and closed my eyes in preparation for some joyous sleep.

What I’d spectacularly *failed* to note was that, basic layout aside, everything else in the room was different. Including the naked guy I’d idly clambered into bed with.

I was asleep practically before my head had even touched the pillow so remained entirely clueless of this simple blatant fact until some unknowable period of time later when I awoke with a start hearing someone hesitantly saying my name.

My first conscious thought was “Ah, he’s woken up horny. Well tough shit. I’m tired. He can have a sleepy handjob and shut the fuck up.”

But as waking perception kicked in I realised that my name was being said in an oddly loud hushed whisper. Like someone trying to shout, but using a quiet voice. And it was coming from outside the door.

And this was the horrifying moment true realisation kicked in. Because it was unmistakably Murray’s voice. He’d clearly woken and wondered where the fuck I’d gone - it’s not as though I was likely to have simply left for home given my clothes were still on his bedroom floor.

My heart sank as the idiotic truth as to my mistake struck me.

And I wondered who the fuck I’d been in bed with.

I froze for a moment considering my options. I could leap out of bed with this stranger and sneak out of his room hoping his apparent deep sleep would continue undisturbed, and straight up admit my blunder to Murray. OR I could wait it out, let Murray head back to bed wondering if he’d fucked a ghost, sneak out, and then live in a hole for the rest of my life.

Obviously the latter wasn’t much of an option, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit considering it.

Murray’s voice was getting louder and, sweetly, had adopted a tone of some genuine concern, so I tried my best to manoeuvre out of the bed with as little movement as necessary.

Naturally this didn’t work. I managed to make noise than if I’d ridden a horse through the small room which, combined with Murray’s foghorn like urgent loud whispering, proved more than enough to finally wake the sleeping stranger.

To his enormous credit, he didn’t scream when we woke to find a naked stranger in his bed. He did swear though. Loudly. And repeatedly.

Before I was able to mutter much of a grovelled apology, Murray burst in, presumably wondering if I was fucking or murdering his entire household.

As I stood naked between the shocked stranger who’s bed I’d just snuck out of, and the shocked guy I’d slept with mere hours earlier, I realised I could either burst into tears, or burst into hysterics. I spent a lot of time in the aftermath of this situation genuinely wondering if I was a sociopath, because I distinctly recall having those options as a conscious choice.

I went for laughter. I laughed until I wept.

Thankfully, Murray did the same. The confused housemate took longer to come around but, mercifully, eventually saw the funny side too.

We ended up all heading downstairs and drinking some more - no one was quite sleepy enough to head back to bed in the aftermath.

A threesome was very much *not* on the cards. For all the housemate was a handsome guy, it was abundantly clear from the number of pictures in his room that he was very happy with his girlfriend. We spent some time discussing whether or not he would tell her of the incident. (Ultimately he did. She didn’t find it as funny as we all had.)

The remainder of my time in the abode passed without incident. I left early the following morning, declining a repeat performance of the night before.

I spent the rest of my student life avoiding Murray at all costs. Though I did inexplicably keep bumping into his housemate. It was tricky to tell which of the two of us was more embarrassed every time it happened.

Neither of us ever knew quite where to look…