The G rated happened when I was about 17 at a theme park. I got a defective bumper car. As soon as the power came on it drove me straight into a wall - which just happened to be the wall that the queue for the cars lined up against. This probably doesn’t sound so bad but trust me, it was really frigging embarrassing having to get out of that car in full view of all those highly amused people and have to slink along that wall to get out of the ride. To this day, I will not ride the bumper cars.
And now for the X rated one (I can’t believe I’m telling this story …)
Me and the then-boyfriend were having sex on the sofa one night, absolutely plastered. So plastered we didn’t even bother closing the shades and I’m sure the folks living across the road had a nice view.
That’s not the embarrassing part.
We were so drunk we both just passed out at some point - I’m not sure if it was during or after.
The next day we were at it again (in my bedroom, with the shades closed this time, thank you :)). I was on top. Suddenly he said “what’s that?”
“What?”
“Get up for a minute” he said.
So I stood up only to discover … last night’s condom. We had been so drunk the night before we hadn’t noticed it had come off him, and had stayed inside me, and it had fallen out and hit him on the balls!
Needless to say that ended that day’s session pretty quickly. And my mortification wasn’t soothed any by his next words - “Got anything else up there?” :eek:
Well, I have a poop story, too, but it was private, thank God. Had a bad reaction to some antibiotics, barfing and pooping copiously. Got up to go do something, came back to bed, bent over to straighten covers, OOOPS, how humiliating.
Worse, though, had the plastic (plastic, what idiot thought of that) bra hook break on my bathing-suit top at the beach, causing me to give a good look to half the beach.
Not personally embarassing, because I’ve never done anything to be embarassed about (yeah, right), but I was in attendance at a wedding reception where I felt ablsolutely awful for the bride.
For some completely unexplainable reason I agreed to attend the wedding of a co-worker of my wife. I’ve never met the woman, don’t know anything about her, etc. I make a deal with my wife - I’ll meet you at the reception.
I get to the reception first and notice that it is scheduled to be by the indoor pool in the Sheraton. I says to myself, “Self, someone is going to go swimming tonight, I can feel it in my bones.”
The reception starts to fill up with folks, everyone just enjoying the hell of out themselves. The bride and groom arrive and start mingling. Evidently the poor bride was so caught up in what she was doing that she just completely forgot about the pool. Sure enough, as the entire room watches, she finishes dancing with her father, turns, and steps right into the deep end of the pool. I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, yell “I knew this was going to happen you bunch of yahoos!” or what. Oh, how I felt for her. I’ll give her credit, she did manage to make a rather graceful exit, and I don’t imagine it was easy to swim in a wedding gown and veil.
A few years back, and ex-SO and I were staying at a friend’s parents place while traveling. As our friend (Greg) was driving us to the place, he says to us in a jocular tone, “And don’t be leaving your condom wrappers lying around like the last time!” pause
Ex-SO: “Um, I’ve never stayed at your place before, Greg.”
(It had been me and my prior SO.)
It took a bit of red-faced convincing that I hadn’t been cheating on her.
Later on in the weekend, Greg walked in on us in flagrante delicto, but he was the one mortified - we were amused. My ex- even later asked him whether he was just checking for wrappers. His mortification increased exponentially.
When I was in grade 6, I had my face bitten off. (No…there is no exaggeration there.)
I was playing with my own dog. (A golden retriever) and we were doing the typical roughhousing, when he started growling. I stopped tried to calm him down and “SNAP”.
I pulled my hands away from my face, which felt like it had been punched, and thought, “Wow! That was close.”
My brother next to me said, “Oh my god…”
“What?” I said…then looked at my hands. Red.
I panicked and ran to the bathroom to se what had happened. My bro tried to stop me but to no avail.
What I saw in the mirror f**ked me up. There was nothing left.
The dogs top-jaw caught me JUST under my left eye and the bottom-jaw caught me on my lower right cheek, (By the corner of my mouth.) and pulled. Everything was still attached, but pulled away.
I had to have plastic surgery to have it all put back. Only a faint scar on my right cheek is left. (There is a faint scar under my right eye, but you can’t see it unless you know it’s there and it is pointed out.)
So I hope seeing ones own skull qualifies as a mortifying experience. = )
My college roommate was a tour guide. Meaning she took groups of potential new students and their families on tours of the campus to encourage them that they wanted to attend that school.
Our dorm room was quite something. She had a loft that could have held a Volkswagen - a lot of tour guides liked to show our room, but she was the only one who had a key.
Her regularly scheduled tour was Tuesday. This was Thursday. My boyfriend and I were…um…involved when we heard the key in the door. Nope, no knock. My roommate opened the door, tour in tow, looked at us, and immediately closed the door. I’m sure some of the tourists got an eyeful.
Forty-five seconds later, she opens the door again and says, “All finished?” We hadn’t been, but we sure were the first time the door opened!
To make matters worse, one of the tourists was her younger brother. Who thankfully did not reveal this to their Mom.
This is not my MOST mortifying experience, but its a fair runner up. (Those things which i find truly mortifiying are NEVER mentioned after the fact…)
I am one of those girlies that has a problem with doing my duty around the man I love. This makes NO sense WHATSOEVER. I am not a prissy sort of girl. AT ALL. Yet, In the early stages of our relationship(read: the first two YEARS), i went so far as making super-foxy style runs over to my friend’s house (across the street…easy as pie), inorder to take a *&#!. It has taken me four years to talk myself into doing it with him in the house, and deep inside, i am STILL oddly embarassed.
Now, enter the strange mental torture of a cross country road trip with my man. (CA to MD) There were wonderful things that happened, but they all sorta fell to the wayside for me in light of this one thing…i couldnt find a place to GO (you know what i mean.) I just never had enough time at the pit stops, and i couldnt seem to make myself go in the hotel restrooms!..I didnt have that “Buffer zone.” Most of the girls reading this know what im talking about. That carefully planned moment, when your S.O. is either out or clearly otherwise occupied. That smooth unglitched sense of timing, that allows for the, ahem scent, to disipate to a tolerable level. Enough so you can innocently pretend you fart roses and lilacs…sO, i dont have the zone, and its not like i can pretend i do. The pressure builds and BUILDS. Im getting bloated and decidedly crabby, until somewhere in tennessee the dam breaks and i just have to go, boyfriend or not! I make a quick dash for the bathroom, and take one of the loudest, foulest, BIGGEST poo’s of my life, all the while cringing with my shame.
At the end of this i wipe and add my toilet paper to the top of this mess…then try and flush. Sure enough, it wont go down. I have to wait for the toilet to refill and then flush again. and then again. and then again. IT WONT go DOWN. About fifteen minutes pass this way. My boyfriend is knocking on the door at this point and im trying to tell him im ok while simultaniously chewing at my lower lip in panic. I try one more time…and the toilet clogs. I stand breathlessly while i pray it wont overflow. Luckily it didnt, but i was still left with the horrible job of telling my BF that the toilet was out of commission. He looked at me, to the huge log in the toilet, and back…then promptly burst out LAUGHING. He started calling me floater! i couldnt handle it! the only thing that kept that nickname from becoming permanent were the very VERY real tears threatning to come shooting out of my eyes. (He is bad sometimes, but never bad enough to make me CRY.) we both had to pee in the tub that night and the next morning.
Oh jeez. i just realized how horridly long this post is.
sorry everyone!
Time for my own private humiliation. May not fit in with everyone else’s stories as it left only me burning with shame.
In elementary school there was an annual tradition of “Field Day” at the end of the school year. “Field Day” was a series of fun events in which the various homeroom classes would compete against each other for athletic supremacy. The undisputed king of all the events though was the tug of war. Eight people from each class were selected to go head to head for the honor of all.
Come fifth grade and our teacher announced that in her class we would draw names from a hat to choose the coveted slots. Most classes held elections so I saw this is my big chance. Now you must understand I was skinny as a rail, socially awkward and woefully unathletic. In my heart however, I felt I was really a great athlete waiting to shine. Much to my delight my name was chosen. I was finally going to shine.
In my moment of glory the three most popular and athletic kids approached me. In my delusional state this was surely to assure me that with my assistance we couldn’t fail. First popular kid says “You know Mitch we want to win” Me “Ya! so do I” Second kid “Well then why don’t you tell the teacher you don’t want to play and we can get Travis (other popular kid) on our team”. Soon the whole class became involved in its efforts to convince me to give up. With tears in my eyes I told my teacher I didn’t really like tug of war.
I know two posts in a row must be some newbie thing to do but I must add another for the record. This time not my embarassment exactly but mortifying enough.
My mother myself and my grandparents went to Cape Cod two years ago. Twas mid summer on the most crowded beach on the Cape and a beautiful day for lying around. We were all sitting sunning ourselves. My grandfather (all preface this by saying he is indeed elderly but not the least bit senile) was resplendent in the classic old man at the beach getup. Plaid shorts a white t-shirt and a hat. He fell asleep near the edge of the surf in a beach chair.
The water started gently washing up causing the chair to sink into the sand until the canvas bottom was resting against the sand. I was just beginning to wonder whether it was time to wake him up and suggest he might want to move his chair back as the tide was coming in. As soon as I was two feet from his chair a freakishly big wave came roaring up the beach was a ton of water over his chair and pushing sand up his shorts.
In a completely inexplicable reaction he jumped up with a shout and yanked his shorts past his knees and started brushing at the sand. Took a few seconds to realize that every eye within a hundred feet was on the naked old guy swatting at his legs. To his credit he very calmly suggested now might be good time to get lunch. Every time since we’ve suggested a trip to the beach he has ever so politely declined.
