Fringe Benefits - My Edinburgh Exploits - Stand Up Cumedy

Somehow, and please don’t ask me exactly how, it’s fucking August again already. There is simply no rational world in which it’s already been a full rotation of the sun since last August, but here we are. Either someone has miscounted or I’ve finally reached an age in which time now accelerates at an exponentially terrifying pace that defies means of measurement. But, if it’s the latter, we’ll save diving into that particular existential dread for another day.

Because while, for most, August may represent peak holiday season or perhaps a high point of the summer, for me it exists for one thing only:

Three and a half weeks of living away from home in tiny cramped accommodation with friends (and colleagues who will swiftly become friends, or likely won’t survive the duration) in the beautiful Scottish city of Edinburgh, working our arses off at the largest performing arts festival anywhere in the world;

The Edinburgh Fringe.

I’ve posted a great many tales of Edinburgh Fringe based fornication already. Gathering groups of performers, comedians, creatives and all manner of arty types in one city and subjecting them to the heady cocktail of stress, adrenaline, exceptionally close proximity and, invariably, alcohol, tends to place many in a particularly amorous state of mind, the likes of which only the [un]lucky souls who partook in a ‘creative’ degree at university can truly understand.

In short; there’s a lot of fucking about. In every sense of the world.

And so, since I find myself departing to Scottish Capital tomorrow - no, I’m not packed yet, thanks for asking - I wanted to make a commitment on here.

Usually during fringe season, I essentially disappear from Substack. But after over a month of already being largely absent, I’m determined to not leave you all in the dark again.

So, for better or worse, I’m pledging here, the content will continue!

For the most part I suspect it may end up being something of a mini ‘Fringe Diary’ of any notable exploits. But maybe Robyn will get a look in too. And I’ve enough ideas for The Wedding Planner to fill a novel, so I’d not be surprised if Melissa receives a chapter or two as well.

The content may be shorter than usual but hopefully it, and perhaps even some of you, will keep coming.

In the meantime, here’s one of my highlights from last year’s fringe to help set the scene of what may lie ahead.

If I’m lucky.

Alice x

As I walked along the interminable inclines that somehow make up *every single street* in the otherwise beautiful city of Edinburgh, I found myself distracted from the straining on my thighs by the unmistakable panging of my loins.

Quite without prompting, I was thinking of him again. The wonderful comedian who was not only effortlessly hilarious, but had the indecency to be incredibly handsome to boot.

I was reminded of a surprisingly heated argument I’d once had with a drunk man who’d told me firmly and in no uncertain terms; “You’re allowed to be funny or attractive. You’re NOT ALLOWED TO BE BOTH!” He’d shouted the latter at me, mere inches from my - apparently too funny *and* attractive - face. I’d disagreed with his sentiment at the time, but now I was beginning to understand his frustrations.

Because, let me not understate this fact: This man was *beautiful*. And he had spent 50 minutes making me laugh harder and more consistently than I had done anytime in recent memory.

Twice.

I’d enjoyed his show so much the first time, I’d gone to see it again. And, somehow, it was just as funny the second time. And he was just as handsome as I’d remembered. Possibly even more so.

I pictured his mesmerising green eyes and imagined how wonderful it must be to be his microphone - being held firmly in his manly hands and to be so close to his sensual lips while he whispers sweet nothings directly into you… And before I knew what I was doing, I’d reached for my phone to book another ticket to his show.

‘Third time’s the charm’, I told myself while pondering which HIAATAMT (‘Hi, I’m Alice, and these are my tits’) dress I’d wear so I could catch his eye…

That was the moment the realisation hit me.

I stopped stone dead in the street. Charlie, who’d be keeping pace with me got a few paces ahead before registering I was no longer by her side. She spun round to face me, managing to straddle a look of simultaneous concern and irritation perfectly. I looked up at her, my face pale with shock.

“Oh no. Have I become the Baby Reindeer?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” replied Charlie, any trace of concern immediately draining and leaving nothing but clear frustration that I was delaying the return to our digs.

“It was an Edinburgh show a few years ago and then got made into a Netflix thing.”

Charlie seemed none the wiser, so I continued.

“About a women who became obsessed with a comedian and started stalking him, or something. I’m not actually sure, I’ve never watched it.”

Charlie sighed.

“Alice, this is not becoming this Fringe’s ‘thing’. Either forget him, or go fuck him. I haven’t the time or the energy to watch you go all baby Rudolph.”

Charlie is a wise woman. I’d have been a fool to ignore her advice.

Want to place your bets now which side of the coin I came down on?

It will, I’m sure, not surprise you to learn, dear reader, that my chosen approach to the task in hand - catching the eye and successfully seducing the beautiful comedian who, for the purposes of this, I’ll call ‘Eddie’ (Com-Eddie. Geddit? Reader, there’s a reason I wasn’t doing the stand-up myself) - was not at all subtle.

Which is to say that I found my lowest cut dress that had made it to Edinburgh with me, and planned to arrive at the venue early enough to sit on the front row. I’d ensure I laughed hard and heartily at every joke, but figured the rest would be left to fate.

Fate, meanwhile, had decided as it so often does to be against me from the start. The following few days of Eddie’s shows were already sold out so, despite being both horny of mind and singular of purpose, I had no option but to wait.

Mercifully to help prevent my loins over-percolating and slipping into full Santa’s sleigh puller, during this intermission I ended up meeting with an acquaintance from a previous fringe. Fate taketh and away and fate giveth.

That encounter however, is for another time.

Having definitely *not* been counting the minutes down, the fateful day eventually arrived. I spent more time in the tiny accommodation bathroom prepping my look for this one outing than I did for the entire rest of the fringe combined. I’m usually modest to a fault but, on this occasion, even I am readily prepared to admit that I looked damn good.

No, better than damned good.

Damned *fuckable*.

My plan had been to arrive early to secure a seat at the very front. Wearing a HIAATAMT dress would, after all, be somewhat redundant if Eddie could only see me from the neck up.

However, in my eagerness, I somewhat overshot. There’s arriving early, and there’s arriving when they’re not yet even queuing for the show *before* the show you’re waiting to see.

Whoops.

When I’m eager, I’m fucking eager.

Mercifully, during the fringe, there’s no shortage of places of to sit, drink and while away the time. Almost every venue either has a bar, or has erected a makeshift drinks station to keep the audiences thoroughly lubricated. The day was a pleasant one - yes, there are the occasional days in Scotland where, believe it or not, it *doesn’t* rain - so I bought myself an overpriced drink and found a spot to sit in one of the courtyards outside the venue.

Now, it’s important to realise that Edinburgh during the fringe festival is busy. Stupidly busy. As such, seating is at a premium. If you spot a spare seat anywhere, be it a bench or a chair at a table, it’s entirely fair game to grab it. This is, in my opinion, one of the great joys of the festival. Rarely will you interact and socialise with so many strangers from so many different walks of life. The point being it’s not at all surprising to have someone sit near you and start making random light conversation.

I was sat, supping lightly at my drink and idly thumbing through the Fringe brochure - as much to stop myself scrolling through Eddie’s Instagram feed again as I feared I could feel the antlers growing - when I became vaguely aware someone had taken the seat at the opposite side of the picnic bench upon which I was sat.

There was the obligatory few minutes silence while the weight was taken off feet and it was decided whether this was a brief pause or a substantial settle. Then, the inevitable opening gambit:

“So, what are you here to see?”

I looked up. The question had been asked by a guy in his late twenties who somehow looked exactly like the actor Matt Smith whilst simultaneously looking not at all like the actor Matt Smith. He was something like the ‘Matt Smith if ordered from Temu’ joke, but without the negative connotation. Though this is all said with hindsight. At the time my mind was so filled with thoughts of Eddie laughing me into bed, I barely noticed this guy had such identifying details as a face at all.

“Eddie.” I replied, hoping I’d not whispered it like a lovestruck teen carving her crush’s name into a desk. The guy seemed unphased, so I must’ve got away with it.

“Nice,” said the guy. “Ever seen him before?”

“Yes, a couple of times.” I said, declining to mention this meant specifically over the last week. I didn’t want to scare this poor stranger, after all. “How about you?”

“I’ve seen him LOTS…” said the guy.

My heart froze. Oh no. Clearly Eddie was *so* beautiful and *so* funny that he had garnered and almost cultish fandom of obsessives. Perhaps I was just the latest in the line of many. Maybe this man was here to put all of the other reindeer out of their misery so he could claim Eddie’s glorious red nose for his own?

“… I do his tech.” finished the guy.

Of course he did. Had I not been so distracted planning where Eddie and I would post our inevitable engagement announcement I’d have spotted that the guy was wearing all blacks - a tell tale sign of one of the many, many theatre, show, sound and lighting technicians that help make the fringe actually function.

The relief however was short lived. Because that meant this guy had presumably been at *all* of Eddie’s shows. Meaning there was every chance he’d spotted me in the audience and knew fine well this was my third visit. I started to glance around for a hole in which to crawl into to die of awkwardness.

Thankfully the guy - who I’ll call Mike because he’s a sound technician (Mic - geddit? Perhaps I should do stand-up after all?) - didn’t appear to have realised. If he had, he was clearly so used to spying the Eddie obsessives that he didn’t even consider it worthy of note.

Instead we spent a lovely fifty minutes discussing Eddie, comedy and the fringe in general. The time flew by and, most importantly, I managed to get through the entire conversation without letting my antlers slip. At least, not until we were about to part ways.

Mike was getting up to leave when he said “Well, I guess I’ll see you on the inside. Enjoy the show!” Then, for a moment, he hesitated. “Maybe avoid sitting on the front row. I can’t speak for Eddie but I know I’d not be able to concentrate if I had you to look at for the entire set!”

He laughed to himself and departed to get ready. I barely noticed. All I’d heard was there was every possibility that Eddie would definitely notice me. My plan was going to work!

There’s a thing in comedy known as the Rule of Three wherein the third iteration of a payoff is the prime candidate for the best laugh.

Sadly, the same cannot be said for watching a comedy routine for the third time. Maybe it was because Eddie was distracted by my cleavage, maybe it was because I now knew most of his jokes off by heart, or maybe it was because I never had been able to decide on the colour of the wedding invites. Whatever it was, Eddie’s show just wasn’t landing for me this time around.

Eddie did indeed notice me. We even had a little back and forth. But I stole no more of his time or attention than the man with the awful moustache sat four seats along from me. Though, arguably, the gags Eddie got from me got significantly bigger laughs out of the room.

Not that I’m competitive, of course.

By the end of his set my red reindeer nose was all but extinguished. Sure, he was still gorgeous and funny, but my carefully laid seduction plan had entirely failed. He was as likely to return to his digs for a night of passion with moustache man as with me. I got out of my seat after his bow, and prepared for the long and lonely trudge home, wherein I knew there’d be a Charlie ready to ruthless mock me.

She’d probably already bought a Santa’s sack and was readying a ‘this is all you’ll ever unload, Rudolph’ comment already.

Which, to be fair, is why I love her.

However, as readers who are fond of foreshadowing will no doubt have anticipated, I need not have been downhearted.

No sooner was I outside in the courtyard, than did I feel a tap on my shoulder.

‘Did you enjoy the show?” asked Mike.

Now, given he was responsible for packing up the tech, I realised he must have essentially left his post unmanned in order to nip outside to speak to me. This, coincidentally, was also the moment I realised just how much like and unlike Matt Smith he looked.

“Eddie wasn’t on his best form. Maybe he was distracted” continued Mike, desperately trying to maintain eye contact.

“Want to get a drink or something when you’re all packed up?” I asked, the possibility the day hadn’t been a total write off at the forefront of my mind.

Reader, he did.

We had several drinks in the venue courtyard. And we then moved on to an actual bar for several more.

Lubricated with alcohol I told him at extraordinary length just how much he both did and did not look like Matt Smith. Despite being utterly bewildered by my barrage of nonsense, he told me he gets that a lot.

He got the biggest laugh I’d had all day.

Soon, we reached the inevitable part of the evening wherein we’d either part ways, exchange numbers, or continue on to something more fun.

Me, being the respectable, polite, subtle individual that I am, told Mike that I very much wanted to fuck him. He seemed almost relieved as, for the first time, he allowed his gaze to slide south and properly enjoy the full sights offered by the HIAATAMT dress.

But an important decision needed to be made. Where would we go?

The digs my group found ourselves inhabiting were colourfully known as Catswigs2 SwingLowSweetCattery for reasons only long term readers may have the slightest chance of understanding. I explained that, as our accommodation always ends up being at fringe, it would be a veritable den of iniquity with precisely zero opportunities for privacy. So, ultimately, unless *he* fancied having an audience for once, we might be better placed to return to his digs instead.

Mike agreed though offered a similar warning. While he did have the luxury of a room of his own, he was sharing a flat with Eddie and several others. And Eddie was, in Mike’s own words ‘a prolific shagger’. So we’d almost certainly have some background noise to our action.

I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or offended that I hadn’t made it even as a consideration on such a ‘prolific shagger’s’ radar, but at this point I didn’t much care. Mike seemed a far better prize, and he came with added bonus of being able to potentially show off what Eddie had missed out on…

We arrived at their small flat to discover that Mike had been entirely correct. No sooner were we through the door than we were greeted to the sounds of a headboard clearly struggling to maintain its integrity against a furious onslaught.

Mike looked at me apologetically. I told him not to worry, we’d find our own way to drown it out.

It’s a cliche that actors tend to have massive egos and small cocks. Techies meanwhile traditional have short tempers and massive cocks.

I can’t speak for the length of Mike’s fuse, but his cock was *enormous*. How the hell he fit that thing into skinny black jeans is a mystery I’ll be pondering until my dying day. It was almost my handspan in length and practically as thick as my wrist.

I’m not often lost for words, but when Mike unleashed this monster I could do nothing but sit in an awed moment of stunned silence.

Well, nearly silence. On the other side of the bathroom a jackhammer was still trying to break its way through the wall via the headboard.

Normally when in the presence of such a captivating cock, I can’t wait to get it in my mouth. This one I had to take a moment to enjoy its sheer enormity. I looked at it from multiple angles and couldn’t resist holding my arm up alongside it to confirm my wrist theory.

Mike tried desperately to remain modest, but couldn’t help grinning with delight.

Unable to resist any longer, I took him in my mouth.

I have a big mouth. It’s been remarked upon many times. But Mike’s cock came very close to filling it. All my usual dainty tongue manoeuvres were out of the window as there was barely room in their for me to move it *at all*, let alone with any grace or purpose. Instead, I relied on the other two trusty blowjob bedfellows; lips and motion.

With barely continued glee I began to corkscrew my head up and down his cock. It was sizeable enough that I still have plenty of room for a hand to stroke the base, while my other engaged playfully with his balls. Mike let out a gloriously satisfied breath and lay back on the bed, content to let me do the work for a while.

I was more than happy to oblige.

I must’ve spent between ten to fifteen minutes with my mouth on Mike’s cock, finding new and fun ways to make him twitch, gasp, giggle and writhe. Whether it was long slow sensual licks along the massive run that spanned the base to the tip, stroking him while teasing just the head and, my personal favourite, suddenly switching to sucking the balls when he was least expecting it and watching him suddenly sit bolt upright from the change in sensation.

I made a point of being slow and methodical. This was very much an experience I wanted to last.

I also wanted to make sure that Eddie would finish first and have no choice but to listen to our action without distraction. But Mike didn’t need to know that, even though I’m reasonably sure he’d have enjoyed it.

Mike was equally keen to draw things out. When, during a vigorous head bobbing session, I came close to making him cum he stopped me. Normally I’d have continued regardless and just given him time to recharge for round two, but fringe days are tiring days and as Mike said:

“No matter how good you are, once I’ve cum I’ll be falling asleep twenty minutes later!”

Content I’d shown my skills and keen not to accidentally bring things to a premature close, I finally released Mike’s cock from my mouth and sat back for a moment to see what he had to offer. As a techie I assumed he’d be good with his hands, but perhaps he’d want to get on with the main event?

Instead, he barely moved. Just stay laying flat on his back on the bed. All he seemed to do was shuffle himself down a little.

“Are you literally just waiting for me to climb aboard?” I asked.

“Yup!” he grinned, not noticing the slight ire in my voice.

I made a move to straddle him and lower myself atop his massive cock.

“Not there!” he said, putting his hands beneath me to stop me. “Here!” he beamed, pointing to his face.

“How’ve I ended up doing both lots of oral work?” I asked, more than happy to ride Matt Smith/Not Matt Smith’s face, but irked that it was still me having to put the work in.

“You don’t.” he said, confidently. “I’ve just got bad neck so can’t get into a decent position. But trust me, you just lower yourself into position, I’ll do the rest.”

Oral confidence in men can go one of two ways. In extremely rare circumstances, their boasting is well founded and you have a truly soul healing time. But usually guys boastful of their tonguing skills are the worst offenders for being entirely awful.

For those guys reading this currently in denial please understand the following:

MORE MOVEMENT DOESN’T ALWAYS EQUAL MORE FUN.

As I lowered myself down towards Mike’s face, he took a firm grab of my thighs and pulled me the final foot down. I was worried for a moment I’d broken his nose.

That worry soon disappeared when, mere minutes later, I was seeing stars.

Reader, I’d love to tell you precisely what that man did to me, but I simply cannot compute it. There were times I swear that he must’ve been in possession of multiple tongues as it’s the only thing that makes sense of the multiple sensations I experienced.

I can’t say for certain how long I was upon Mike’s face, but I am certain of two facts:

1) He never released his grip on my thighs the entire time.

2) I climaxed very, very hard indeed.

I pretty sure I declared ‘Oh fucking hell’ *very* loudly indeed as it caught me somewhat off guard.

I can’t be certain that Eddie heard it. But I do know that, mere minutes later, Eddie himself clearly completed his own adventure with an equally loud ‘Fuck, Oh fuck yes!’

I like to tell myself I played a small part in Eddie’s orgasm. That hearing me formed a crucial tipping point leading inexorably towards his own climax.

But this was just the icing on the cake.

And Mike’s cock was the cake.

I intended to stuff myself full of it.

“Time you did some work,” I said, dismounting his face but holding myself in roughly the same position on the bed, now on all fours.

Subtle, I am not.

Mike eagerly leapt up, his cock making a hilariously loud slap sound as it impacted briefly upon his own stomach and got himself into position.

“Shall we see if we can make more noise than they did?” I gasped as he started to fuck my from behind.

And reader; that’s precisely what we did.

I simply turned on the mic.

Share Alice's Open Treasure Chest