When it comes to matters of romance or that special, sexual healing (to quote Marvin Gaye) between Men and Women, there is a tangible breakdown in interaction. Not that I haven’t had many, wonderful and completely satisfying moments with my spouse doing the old horizontal lambada, its just that the finer details seem to go astray on the odd occasion.
What is it that compels a man to think that after a completely enchanting shagging session, when you are both lying there, Him in his string vest and you in your hairnet and curlers, bathing in the sexual afterglow, that farting audibly and pushing your head beneath the duvet until you blackout is conducive to erotica but do it they will. No amount of protesting from yourself or the subtle way in which you thrown up all over him can persuade him otherwise.
Then there is the occasion when you adorn yourself in all of the sexual embellishments that you just know will drive a rampant moose crazy with desire (no - not antlers and musk). You have created an atmosphere of sensual tension with the soft lighting and Luther Vandross trilling melodiously in the background. You slide over the ‘Brentwood Nylon’ and I mean slide because you have literally anointed yourself from head to toe in sensuous oils (no not flora or lard), one good squeeze and you will end up in next door’s garden shed. Back to the plot, he is so overwhelmed by the sight of this pulsating, throbbing hunk of womanhood that he completely ignores the proximity of your genitals in his face and continues to play with his new joystick (computer - dirty minds), oblivious to what is on offer at the muffing counter. After some considerable time during which you have; pouted and panted; pulsed and throbbed yourself into exhaustion, he suddenly realizes your presence, turns to you, stares into your glazed optical orbs and says,
“Fancy a slice then, big girl,” purrs this sexual giant.
Funny how that diminishes the ambiance, as does his trick of perching a towel (or face cloth!!) on his todger, which he does on a regular basis and when you dissolve into fits of hysterical laughter he becomes quite upset, funny that as is the fact that no matter how hard I try I cannot get aroused by this vision of sexuality but I’m working on it.
Translation of the word ‘No’ I have discovered can be open to a bit of controversy. That simple two letter word of denial seems to be interpreted differently by Men when uttered by the female of the species but that translation seems to take on greater importance when that Male is trying to seduce his partner. What is known as; ‘Getting ones leg over’, or ‘Sinking the pink’ by the male fraternity. The definition of ‘No’ in the dictionary is as follows;
• Nay,
• Negative,
• None.
• None at ALL.
Nevertheless, this terminology appears to be of no interest to ‘Sydney Love-Truncheon’, who is doing old David Attenborough proud in the bedroom displaying all kinds of intricate courting rituals to a bored and disinterested female. Male translation of the word ‘No’ are as follows and I would be interested in just how many you recognize;
F: “No darling - I really do not feel well at all.”
M: “Come on sweetheart - let Doctor Trouser Snake fill your prescription for you.”
F: “No darling - I really do have the most terrible earache.”
M: “Well, I’m not putting it in your ear love”
(Warning - desperate enough the male will try and use any orifice - do not be deceived - you have witnessed the dog with that worried frown haven’t you?).
F: “Fuck off ugly - no way - no how - not on your life - never - I would rather shag Bernard Manning - one more move and you’ll be wearing your balls for earrings.” (desperation seeping in at this point)
M: “Go on - you know you want to.”
F: “I really am exhausted my sweet”. (usually said through clenched teeth)
M: “Never mind love muffin - I’ll pull your nightie down when I’m finished.”
These are but a few of the archetypal examples of the word ‘No’ and there will no doubt be many more but for the millions of excuses that go astray in fending off this rampant love goat, only one deterrent seems to have had the desired effect and that it as follows;
F: “All right then - you’ve talked me into it - you smoothie you and I’m sure that bout of ‘Thrush’, ‘Herpes’ and or ‘Genital Warts’ will be cleared up by now”. (This statement is usually followed by a pregnant pause which in turn is followed by;)
M: “On second thoughts love, better be safe than sorry, let us err on the side of caution shall we”?
Mission accomplished, let me tell you the very threat of a pus riddled, itchy and lumpy ‘hampton’ does have a way of reducing ‘Mr Pinky Pork Sword’ to a mere chipolata in a matter of seconds. I have noticed in my research that all men are born with this trait that leaves them completely cocksure (pardon the pun) about their lovemaking dexterity. No matter of how competent they may be, how attractive they think they are or how accomplished they feel they are in this sexual arena, they consider it their duty to satisfy the entire female race and that it is our fate as females to; shut up, lie down and think of England or in most cases Mel Gibson.
You have witnessed him, this apogee of impressive sexual manhood, propped up in his armchair in his T-shirt (with matching sweat stains under the arm pits and last night’s curry resplendent on the front - nice), scratching his parts, picking his nose, while he peruses that literary tabloid the ‘Daily Sport’ (and believing the articles - Bus Found On The Moon). He is Man, and he knows that you want him with all of your hearts desire, okay whatever and as he reads the paper (no joined up writing) he learns that some buxom, beauty of renown is at a loose end without the company of some equally famous male to warm her pants and her lonely nights and he imperiously concedes that although she’s looking a bit rough, he would still give her one. What a generous man, throwing away his seed without a second thought for his own needs.
All I can say is,
“Don’t go out tonight Sharon
I do not know if I am the only female in the world who has been deluded by a male but I will come clean, admit to everyone and be damned because I have a theory. That theory is that men actually change physically and mentally once they get that band of gold on your finger, their key on your key ring or the ball and chain tightly ensconced on your ankle. This metamorphosis can either be so quick that your finger hasn’t had time to turn green or as in my case a gradual but tangible process all of the same. I now know that the slower process was a deliberate move on His part so that I would not realize mutation had occurred until it was too late (sneaky). When we were courting (what a quaint little phrase) I recall being with a Man of infinite romantic proportions. A Man who constantly assured me of his undying devotion - a Man who never tired of caressing me (even in public- hard to believe) - and more importantly a Man who actually spoke to me and participated in genuine conversations.
Guess what (and this is a killer) he was even known to purchase (using his own money - girls) gifts for me, not spanners, irons or a mangle but magical gifts like underwear and perfume (writing this makes me so nostalgic). These were presents I could actually use or keep to remember that somebody loved me as a woman and then after a ceremony which I though was marriage (I now know it was nothing of the sort but some sort of similarly weird ritual) he was gone and in his place was this grunting thing. I know, I know why didn’t I tell someone well I did consider ringing the police when my romantic man disappeared but what credibility is there to be found in my theory that my husband had been abducted and replaced by an alien clone and I never did look good in a tight jacket especially those white ones with lots of belts and straps.
I’ve seen ‘Stepford Wives’ and I really do not need the extra hassle in my life and you know may be I was hallucinating and this Man was a fabrication of an over worked imagination. I bloody hope not, because I live for the day He will return to oust this ingrate with whom I share my life and my bed. Like the Loch Ness Monster there has been sightings of this Quixotic fool but they usually occur after 15 pints of sock rot and it somehow takes the edge off the fantasy but they cant take my dreams away.........can they?
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