Remember those days when you first got together and had regular serial shag-a-thons and your tits didn’t look like windsocks and your pre-baby fanny didn’t look and feel like it’s got the vaginal version of Bell’s Palsy and your man didn’t pick his arse in front of you?
Spontaneous sex is now a lost art, and quite frankly it faded out a bloody long time ago. There is the issue of kids of course, but even if they are not around, ample time needs to be earmarked for me to give my fanny a quick shave and for him to wash his knob in the sink.
Sexy time is now always premeditated, requires some rather strategic planning and follows a predictable series of steps. Who said romance was dead? (Give that man a cigar!)
Step 1: Husband tries to initiate sex using one or more of the following methods:
- Sneaks up behind me and puts a bag over my face (just kidding)
- Takes a £20 note from his pocket and throws it on the bed (again, just kidding. Though that could work)
- Slaps me in the face with his penis (not kidding)
Step 2: I establish probability of intercourse (see bar chart below)
Step 3: Adequate time is allocated for aforementioned fanny-shaving and cock-washing. Whilst splashing willy around in the sink, husband takes the opportunity to tell me how lucky I am to have someone so well-endowed.
Step 4: Husband goes downstairs to get sky remote to poorly illustrate point made in Step 3, using sky remote as a comparison tool for his semi-on.
Step 5: A suitable spunk-rag is located for dealing with the aftermath of what’s about to go down (which, by the way, probably won’t be husband). Usually an item from the dirty wash basket, such as husband’s T-shirt. Or jimjams belonging to one of the kids – what they don’t know won’t hurt ’em.
Step 6: Husband starts erotic proceedings with a final couple of inquiries:
Step 7: Shit gets underway:
Step 8: Tandem crab-walk onto carefully laid-out spunk rag to collect spillage. Slim chance of pillow talk. Small chance of spooning. High chance of husband farting. Straight to sleep.