Ha bloody ha! A sex diary? As if I haven’t got enough to do all day. It’s all right for Veena, she can ponce about at the school and scribble at her desk when she’s told the kids to get their heads down. But I’m in a job where the bosses don’t appreciate you finding your inner-self on their time. Plus which, if any of the guys saw me punching my laptop at lunchtime they’d think I was sucking in with the company, and if I told them what I was really doing I’d be a laughing stock, which is something you can make at home with an Oxo cube and a joke book.
But, just to please Veena and prove that I do care about our relationship I’ll go along with this nonsense.
The bold Fiona Buchan says, “It doesn’t matter who reads the diary, what matters is that you write it.” But writing stuff that nobody’s going to read smacks to me of masturbation, and I haven’t had a wank since ... oh
.... 9.30 this morning.
Anyway, I’m making a broad declaration right now, if only to myself, I do NOT have a problem in the trouser department!
Phil/Saturday, 15th April
Veena brought a book back from school - Hints & Tips on Keeping a Diary or Journal.
Is she trying to tell me something?
Seems I’m to write stuff as if somebody will read it, including my thought processes and reasoning etc., as this helps clarify things. If Fiona Buchan thinks she’s going to turn my personal musings into a research paper or thesis she’s got another think coming. Once this farce is over every file is getting deleted. Hold on, I’m sure I read that the FBI can recover deleted files. Okay, once this is over I’m throwing this laptop in the bin. Then I’ll burn it. Then I’ll bury the ashes. Then I’ll tell the company it was stolen.
Okay, here goes.
What this therapy lark is all about is me being tired. Nothing more complicated than that. Veena doesn’t seem to realise that I’m not a teenager anymore. Or that I have a very physically demanding job, which she doesn’t.
I’m up and down ladders and scaffolding all day, frequently lifting heavy bits of kit. When I get home I’m wasted. All I want to do is kick off my shoes and put my feet up. And, yes, sometimes when it gets to the bedroom stakes I’m too tired for nooky now and again, and anybody with any sense of justice would understand that.
Apart from the tiredness I’m perfectly fine and healthy. All my parts are in perfect working order. I still behave like all the other guys and ogle passing girls. I whistle and make lewd comments, fulfilling my role as a sexual predator.
There is no connection or comparison between that and Veena’s complaints.
Whistling requires little physical exertion, whereas what she expects of me requires a great deal, especially if you’re doing it right with all the bells and whistles, special effects and in 3D. I don’t love the girls I leer at. I don’t want to marry them. I don’t even want to have sex with them. But I do love Veena, I did marry her, and I do want to have sex with her.
I’ve tried to explain this to her, but she usually responds by saying I shouldn’t be tired at weekends then, and why don’t we have a little orgy to ourselves. Because I take a drink to relax at the weekends, I say, and of course that’s the start of another barney about my excess drinking. Do you deal with alcohol abuse, Ms Buchan, or are your interests exclusively in the nether regions?
So, bottom line. I work hard to give my wife and son a decent life. I don’t like grief. What’s so wrong with that?
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