Sex! Off the menu

Well, that’s it. It’s official. My wife has confirmed she no longer wants to have sex with me. I have to say, it hasn't come as a shock.

Seeing that we hadn't had sex for almost a year, I just assumed this was the case, but I had no idea it needed to become official.

I remember vividly the last time we had sex like it was just, well ……a year ago!

I have never penetrated any inflatable bedroom accessory such as a latex ‘Lucy Luscious Lips’, or any other blow up apparatus, but I imagine it would feel peculiarly similar to the detached feeling of our last sexual coming together.

Clearly, we were both utterly intoxicated with lashings of red wine and had both assumed we were in a different place with a fantasy alternative to each other. 

I pretended she was the human incarnation of Lucy Luscious Lips and no doubt, she pretended I was a living, breathing Louis Vuitton accessory of some description.

We stumbled into our house and dismissed the babysitter without haste. I opened some Champagne from the fridge and we drank and laughed like we had no recollection of the loathing we had of each other’s sober personalities.

I hadn't had a ‘five knuckle shuffle’ for weeks and her rampant rabbit batteries had leaked a few months earlier, so we pursued our unfamiliar frolics driven by the energy of inebriation and sexual starvation.

I fumbled with the zip to her dress and she responded by poking me in the eye with her index finger, in an accidental but automated reaction to me touching her affectionately.

The rest is history. I've had better.

My Black Leather Cap

I read an interesting article the other day about gay people potentially ruining marriages. Now, I’m not exactly sure what this means or how it works, but I thought it warranted some proper investigation.

It turns out there is an underground of closet gays masquerading as happily married men. Usually with two children, living in a three bed semi in Woking, who are constantly thinking about having an affair with Derek the retired Dentist two doors down. To make matters worse, if I didn’t know I was gay, then it will be thrust upon me, literally, having hit a midlife crisis.

Now, I don’t think I’m gay, but having read a particular article, I'm not so sure. It's suggesting I may only find out my true sexuality by chance when I’m in my forties and bump into a tanned, carefree and welcoming hunk called Bruce in the lift at Selfridges. I have to take this seriously, if only to stock up on Vaseline.

A midlife crisis can apparently be a catalyst for gay feelings to emerge from, and one day soon I may wake up, look at my wife and wish she were Freddie Mercury. I may also be tempted to wear her clothes and walk around the house dusting everything merrily with the Sound of Music soundtrack on CD in the background. I know I’m stereotyping, and I can’t see it myself, but maybe that’s the problem, it sneaks up on you from behind.

A friend of mine had a similar crisis with Porn. Having spent his entire pubescent years desperately trying to find old used hardcore porn magazines in the bushes of public places he suddenly discovered the Internet - a hub of hardcore porn activity that jumps out at you without warning while searching innocently for topics on Bush Tucker - and defected to soft porn. I mean soft porn, what is the point!

He was once an alpha male with a highly prized 'Ben Dover' collection but he's now resigned to being turned on by two almost fully clothed girls, stroking and petting each other in a bubble bath. Disgusting!

I’m not homophobic, but in conclusion, having subjected myself to some improper images of American motorcycle cops from the 70s and hours of intense listening to the village people and Jimmy Somerville, I think I am happy with breasts and Brazilians

The Food Fight!

As I entered my office for the first time in nearly a year, having completed my secondment in Geneva, I was welcomed back with the excitement and dependable lack of humility that can only be expected from Jenny, my dependable admin girl and slobbering mistress.

She is now the ownership of another. Tasting her forbidden fruit was not likely a legal issue but could very well be a moral one. Luckily, I had left my morals in a grubby pub toilet in Southend with Sheila Tamworthy twenty years earlier.

Jenny raced towards me in full view of all and sundry and gave me a big squeezing ‘welcome home’ hug. I had forgotten how wonderful she looked, how great she smelled and how easily my ego could be massaged, but also how highly embarrassing she could be.

I gave her a fake kiss on the cheek and held my arms astride until she reluctantly let go. Frankly, it would have been more appropriate to hang a ‘still flirting with my old boss’ banner outside our building.

I walked on and raised my eyebrows at the world, shook my head in almost authentic surprise and proceeded to my desk as if the incident had never even occurred. Immediately, I felt a huge disappointment and despondency sitting at my desk, seeing the old corporate bullied and tired faces sat around me.

I had spent almost a year in the sunny backdrop of snow-topped mountains and spent late evenings with frustrated wealthy women of leisure. My weekends were filled with skiing trips to the Alps with the single task of preposterous posing with my pals.

This was not Geneva and now I was back in Blighty. As much as I loved England, it meant full-time exposure to my wife and her unbreakable frigidity would mean this exposure would not involve any kind of sexual intimacy, just the usual unforgiving verbal diarrhoea.

Later that day a text was delivered to my mobile. It was from Jenny. It read ‘IMU meet me2nite got a?4U’. At first, I assumed she had fallen over a disposable waste sack and landed fingers first on her mobile keypad, but this was obviously some teenage text code not understood by anyone over the age of 22.

To hell with it, I arranged to meet her later that evening. We had a drink. We talked. We laughed. It was surprisingly pleasant and no word of exchanging bodily fluids was mentioned, it was just a ‘how do you do,’ with a young woman who in her efforts to look older than she was, had had a misadventure with a vat of industrial make up.

I offered to take her home and we jumped into my car. We inadvertently stopped in a disused business park car park. Aghast, I promised to drive straight to the car dealers in the morning as both front seats gave way. We fell into the back of my car entangled with my show of middle-aged athleticism, disguised as an awkward, fumbling forty something oaf.

As the windows steamed up and things became a little warm under the collar, I had this bizarre sensation her face was beginning to melt on me. True enough, as we broke away for a breath, I looked at my collar and then at her. I noticed one side of her face looked as though she had been involved in a close up paint ball fight and I had suffered the debris of her injuries. I was caked in more make up than Boy George.

I jumped up banging my head on the car roof causing immediate erectile dysfunction and called an end to the food fight. I considered telling my wife I had popped into Boots on my way home for a makeover but it sounded too far-fetched.

Now, how shall I explain this?

The 'ManBoobs' incident!

My wife has recently joined the gym. It’s another perfect endorsement that she is up to no good. After all, she’s been letting herself go for years.

Why join now I ask myself. Is it a sudden passion for flippantly exposing her body and having one final flirt with her aging sexuality? After all, is it not true that the female sex drive really kicks off in the forties? Well, I’m not seeing any of it.  Now strangely, one of my good pals is also considering admitting himself to his local gym. We had lunch and he explained all.

ManBoobs! I’d never noticed them before but he assured me he had them. Apparently, they appeared a few months ago during a midnight thunderstorm. He was awoken by a loud clap of thunder and decided to get up for a pee. While relieving his bladder he looked down to see if he could make out his dick over his potbelly and inadvertently shot gunned the entire en-suite with a golden shower, as he realized he was turning into a middle-aged bearded woman.

He says, they have grown steadily ever since and he’s starting to feel like a pubescent schoolgirl experiencing a hormonal change into womanhood. He is not happy.

After lunch and a long, awkward but entertaining conversation about how they looked and whether he should go strapless or under-wired, he invited me to have a peek for myself. Now, he is an old and valued friend but I was not exactly impressed about ogling the fleshy flab first hand. A description was more than acceptable.

Unfortunately, he insisted. Having become reclusive and self-conscious, he pleaded for my opinion. I reluctantly agreed. Given our whereabouts, I grudgingly decided that a convenient place for the examination would be in the men’s toilets, but under no circumstances would I enter a cubicle with him unless the Police evacuated the entire vicinity.

Looking like a couple of dirty old men, we checked out the pub toilets and squeezed eagerly into a cubicle. It wasn’t even funny. Upon locking the door behind us I started to come over hot and flushed and wanted to cry out rape, but I calmed myself down and he undid his shirt.

They were indeed a fine pair, milky white and proud. Being starved by my wife of any kind of sexual contact for so long, I was half tempted to cup them up and kiss them but decided against it.

I agreed completely that he should join the gym ASAP or start to dress in a tulip flowered frock every Tuesday and Friday

The unfortunate Cat!

I’ve had a spot of bother. Recently I discovered a dead cat in my garden. Painful as it may seem to cat lovers everywhere, I really do dislike all cats and that’s when my troubles began.

As a rule, I am an animal lover, not literally of course, bestiality is a sin. Although, a friend of mine did once watch a DVD called 'Animal Farm', he said he only watched the first few minutes. I’m not sure if he actually turned it off or was simply 'sorted' by then, but he told me all about it. I couldn’t look a racehorse in the face for almost a year. Anyway, much as I dislike the Felis catus, I really wouldn’t wish death on any cat. A surgical operation to remove its anus maybe and attach a colostomy bag yes, but not death and that brings me nicely on to why I hate cats so much.

Catshit, crap, anal snakes, fungal faeces, butt mud or toxic turds, whatever you like to call them, you will always find some in my back garden of all shapes and sizes, deposited almost daily by one or more of the sixteen cats that live near to my house.

My back garden is a poo party playground for every one of the blighters. Do they shit in their own backyard? Every morning they take it in turns to get together after a slap up fried breakfast and with the Daily Star under one arm, they proceed to my garden and back the big brown Bentley out of the garage and on to my lawn.

Now back to the dead cat. My wife knows I hate cats and so do my neighbours, and if I see one in my back garden, I would happily challenge a fully doped Carl Lewis to beat me in a 100m sprint to it. Therefore, I felt sure I would be blamed for the abrupt demise of pussy.

The most annoying mog of all is a scruffy, smarmy ginger thing, no doubt imaginatively named, Ginger. After creating a suitable intestine sculpture, he waits at the bottom of my garden and smiles Cheshire style until I get about six feet away.

When I approach calmly but deadly, Kung Fu style, he looks at me, rolls his eyes in despair and jumps effortlessly over the fence. To make matters worse, as I retreat defeated, he has a habit of popping back up on the top of the fence again and laughing, I can’t hear it, but I know he is. Bastard!

The deceased feline had been impaled on a metal spike left upright in my garden. Dangerous I know. I was dismantling my old shed and the offending scrap metal was chucked safely or so I thought, over to the edge of my garden near some rotten fence panels.

Now, my guess is that Mr Shitcake was coming over for his daily dump, the fence panel gave way, and his sphincter squeezing days were over. I’d say he’d been there a couple of days. He was starting to smell a bit nasty. It was unpleasant.

I wondered how I was going to remove him from the spike, which incidentally, was attached to a 4ft piece of wood? I had to slide him off somehow. It might be a tad embarrassing walking around to my neighbours with a dead cat swinging from side to side while impaled on a metal spike, attached halfway up a plank of wood and asking, "Hi, don’t suppose this is yours?"

At that moment, I heard my wife walking up the garden, obviously wondering what was going on. Although I was completely innocent of any calamitous cat crime, I nervously kicked the wooden plank that was attached to the spike that was attached to the cat, into the bushes. I turned my back to it, and smiled.

I knew she would immediately suspect wrongdoing. Unfortunately, it was a poor effort. The wood was indeed now hidden but the cat's head was poking lifelessly and I dare to say, amusingly, out of the side of a conifer tree. "What is going on", she demanded. I screwed up my face for a moment.

After convincing her that I had not in fact, chased the deceased around our garden with a rusty 2ft spike attached to a large plank of wood shouting, "Come here you little shit", I explained what I thought had happened to the unfortunate moggy. Even though the mistrustful way she looked at me made me feel like I was lying, I could tell she believed I wasn't intelligent enough to make it up and she accepted my story.

She recognized the cat and we bagged it up. She made me take it around to our neighbours to explain all. It was a sorrowful affair and they said they would break the news to their ten year old daughter later that day.

Soon after, my neighbour turned up at my house to thank me for bringing the cat over and said his daughter had taken it well and he would make it up to her. "How", I asked. He smiled, "We’re getting her two".