Is the woman mad?
I argued for weeks with Phil. I finally took us both to the doctor’s for a general check-up. We’re fine for our age. Then I argued for more weeks before he’d agree to go and see Fiona with me. And now she tells us she wants us to stop making love? Listen, idiot, we’re not screwing anyway, that’s why we consulted you.
I’m not daft. I know this could be some kind of ‘forbidden fruit’ theory, hoping that Phil will jump my bones once he knows he’s not supposed to, but she doesn’t know Phil. This just gives him an excuse to fall asleep.
And snore. And fart.
What happens to a man’s intestinal tract once he’s married? During even a long and protracted courtship it is the very pinnacle of decency and gentility. The minute the keys of the marital home are turned, his guts turn putrid.
I’m digressing. The fact of the matter is that Phil, being an obstreperous bastard, will not perform according to Fiona’s dictate, and I will remain unshagged. With regard to manual stimulation being sanctioned, I have no interest in having Phil rubbing my fanny for half the night searching for an elusive orgasm. I’m better at it myself, and he knows it, which is why he doesn’t bother.
I will repair to the bath before bed tonight and give myself a damn good soapy seeing-to, and then I can turn over and fall asleep exhausted. Tomorrow I will phone Fiona and speak to her privately.
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