Warning: If swears and willies offend you, best not read on.
I can hear him. Washing his knob in the en-suite sink again. Expectantly, washing his knob. Earnestly, washing-off a day’s worth of urine with the Palmolive hand-wash; in the hope, my stapled-up mouth will fall agape and gratefully envelop his lavender smelling penis.
It wasn’t always like this. My disgust. In the early days, when we used to shag in the back of his Vauxhall Astra, blow-jobs were given willingly, gladly even. Although, I probably didn’t really enjoy it then either. But, I would have been keen to outperform the ex, so I sucked cock like an Amsterdam madam.
Today, I rarely ‘suck cock’. In fact, it’s been a long time since I even called ‘it’ a cock. As sex is such an infrequent (and mostly unwelcome) visitor to our house, if I so much as smile at my husband past 7.30pm, he’s upstairs excitedly lathering up his bell-end in the sink where our kids brush their teeth. The sink where they wash their tiny hands with the now dual-purpose soap. Nothing kills passion like your husband’s penis smelling of the kids.
However, I do occasionally fall in line. I feel sorry for him. He most wonder what happened to the whore. Where’s the dirty girl gone? The slut who used to buy Cock-Rub from Anne Summers and tell him she wants to sit on his face? Sit. On. His. Face! God. Why would anyone want to plant their musky genitalia on another person’s face?! I am told regularly that I used to suggest such outrageous things. Who was this girl? She’s long gone, that’s for sure. In fact, I don’t think I ever really knew her at all. One sorry look into my underwear drawer reveals an apathetic collection of functional fabric. Mis-shaped and mismatched. A drawer of ill-fitting stained Tesco pants screaming ‘periods only’ and four Primark bras (colour unknown) shouting ‘we gave up years ago!’
I do still keep a risky bottom drawer. It’s opened so infrequently, I fear a team of Egyptian archaeologists would be required to prise it open. Here rests, as far as my memory serves me, a pitiful representation of the person I used to be: black stockings, Anne Summers’ thongs, pink lacy hold-ups and, by now, the probably mouldy Cock-Rub. (Yes, it is a real product, quite an effective one I seem to recall..…Google it. Not now).
Last week, predictably pissed on one large glass of Merlot, I had all the confidence I needed to seduce my husband. He would never expect, sat there watching The Crystal Maze, that I, his once minxy other half could still put on a bit of a razzle-dazzle; a strip-tease; a lap-dance. Hell, he might even get a blowie. I’d drunk enough to not be put off by the sweaty, squashed-up balls wearing a day’s worth of urine. A few licks would put that right.
First step, slip (pour) into the slutty outfit I wore on our wedding night. An outfit which was now somewhat smaller than I remembered. Not to worry. He’d be so turned-on, he wouldn’t notice the blancmange legs pleading to escape the suffocating constraints of the rubbery hold-up. Nor would he spot the moguls of cellulite. He wouldn’t spot much with the lights out and the faint orange glow of outside’s street light.
Any arousal I’d felt whilst dressing-up, was quickly extinguished as soon as I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror. I didn’t look sexy. Didn’t look seductive. Didn’t look hot. I was the cliché of mutton dressed lamb. An increasingly grey-haired and wrinkly old mutton who should know better than to act like a titalising lamb. A lamb would have shaved her pubes hours ago. The black lace of my barely there knickers could not keep back the crowds of tumbling pubic hair sashaying a good two inches down my thigh. This would not do.
I pruned as best I could; hunched over the toilet, delicately snipping the longer hairs away. As with your daughter’s fringe, a snip here, and a snip there, always leads to an uneven mess. Just as I thought one side was even, the other side seemed longer. So I snipped there too. Then back to the other side. Until my vagina was covered in tufts. Course tufts which poked through the lace knickers. I got the razor out. I shaved on the left, I shaved on the right. Husband shouted up to ask if I wanted a cup of tea. Oh God. All the passion was washing away with the mass of pubes swirling around the toilet bowl. It would have to do. A half bald, half tufty, slightly bloody and raw looking vagina, now covered in my son’s Sudocrem would be waiting for my husband underneath the now, incredibly uncomfortable knickers. This is why I pretend to be asleep at night. This is why I say my tummy hurts. This is why we have sex four times a year. No clit rubs in the world are worth this much shit.
Nevertheless, in for a penny. The pathetic strip-tease I somehow managed to pull off in the high heels I last wore in 1996, seemed to do the trick. That should do him for another month or two.
Or, so I thought. Now, here we are. I’m in bed pretending that I can’t hear him splashing cold water over his bell-end, whilst trying to hang onto the scrap of arousal I momentarily felt downstairs whilst watching Jack Reacher. Come on, it’s 9 o’clock. One of the kids will be up in a minute. Shit-bags, I forgot to buy Babybels. Have I put the dishwasher on? Christ, I need to shave my legs. Hang on, is that a bit of discharge I can feel on my pubes? Quick, lights out. Pretend. To be. Asleep…….zzzzzzzz!
“Get your fucking knob off my back!”