So, I’ve just watched Pamela Anderson on This Morning banging on (pardon the pun) about how men and women should not be watching porn. Well that’s lovely, isn’t it Pam. I’m pretty sure my husband had his first wank over a picture of your fanny.
Personally, I don’t see the biggie here. Porn has kept men quiet (and women) for years. It’s saved me a job on many a night and I’m grateful for that, as long as husband remembers to delete the history on the kids’ ipad afterwards, I don’t wish my sons to be exposed to the joys of watching female ejaculation just yet.
When talking to my friends about porn, I find they generally fall into 2 categories:
- Those who claim their partner absolutely does not watch porn (puh-lease!!) and would consider that to be a form of cheating.
- Those who, although not entirely happy, do accept that all men watch porn and let them get on with it.
Ladies in the first category, come on. Husband having a cheeky wank to a quick x-hamster video while you’re downstairs doing the hoovering is perfectly okay once in a while. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t find you attractive and it doesn’t count as cheating because he can’t stick his dick into an ipad screen. And don’t pretend you didn’t get fanny gallops over the idea of having Christian fuck you like a whore when you read 50 shades. Same kicks, my friend.
I think as long as men are able to make the distinction between porn and reality, it’s completely fine. Sure, I would worry if my husband tried to stick his fist up my arse, but he’s not a total fucking moron and has enough sense to know that, as a rule, real-life sex in your thirties doesn’t involve secretaries, virgins in taxis or a lesbian scissoring side-show.
I cried this morning because the dog chewed my make up sponge and I’ve caught pink-eye from my youngest child (the dirty little bastard) and my life is fucking shit and I want to smash my husband’s face in with a breeze block.
Not really. I just have P.M.T. Which basically means I am my normal self, but a fat-bastard version, with acne of the ENTIRE FACE AND BODY and an extreme hatred of everyone on the planet, including my hideous, greedy, ugly, fat-twat self. Other than that, I feel fine. Perfectly fine. Although did I also mention that I fucking hate everyone?
I’m planning on getting through the rest of the day by: a) looking at my ugly face crying in the mirror, b) eating chocolate digestives and crying some more into the mirror and c) hating my shitty existence and crying into the mirror a bit more. Just kidding. I have to work/clean/prepare tea/walk the bastard dog/wash the pink-eye pillow cases/look after small people/buy a new make-up sponge/generally act like a non-psychopath in public.
Anyway, I wanted to make sure it was normal to be experiencing what can only be described as intense feelings of abhorrence at my own life in the days leading up to the kind visit from Aunt Flo, so I googled it. And according to google I’m either: a) going through early menopause (cue further googling to convince myself that yes, I am menopausal, and my husband should take this shit seriously and start having some fucking sympathy); b) dying (cue further googling to rule out death); or c) preparing to expel an unfertilised egg and shit loads of womb lining out of my fanny within the next few days (the most plausible explanation, of course, and hardly surprising as I’ve done it 9 times so far this year).
In my self-diagnosis, I came across a rather useless and unhelpful diagram of the female menstrual cycle. You know the one you have to look at in Biology lessons? It’s about as useful as my white jeans will be this time next week. (By the way, have you seen that sanitary towel advert where the girl is wearing white jeans and smiling away at the fact that it’s 5am and she’s still out partying with friends? Go home and get a shower you mucky bitch!) So I decided to edit the diagram slightly. I do hope it’s useful now.
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.