Another one bites the dust
Another of my, frankly pointless, relationships has recently ground to a juddering halt on the tumultuous and broken highway of life. Just because she had the offer of moving in she developed the wholly misplaced fantasy that I no longer required regular oral sex. A fact to which all married men will painfully testify is that a bride smiles on her wedding day because she knows she has given her last blow job. The collapse in détente was precipitated by one of those utterly meaningless spoken exchanges that seem to punctuate any relationship I find myself in. Disappointingly she was able to speak, hindered neither by the presence of my manhood in her mouth or the raucous grind of my snoring which usually engulfs her side of any dialogue.
As usual she had found a reason for complaint, and as usual the complaint was about me. This time she chose to berate me about my incredibly amusing habit of breaking wind loudly when participating in sexual communion. I find a duvet rapidly inflating, lifting off the bed and drifting a few inches above the mattress a wonderful adjunct to time spent in repose. Since I was not the one that introduced the concept of vegetables, and the resulting gaseous bi-products, to meal times I did not think that she was entitled to any real grievance. You fill me with rubbish like petit pois, steamed pok choi, stir fried broccoli and grilled lettuce, you are going to spend the evening listening to my rear end play the Dam Busters march. If I need vegetables with my steak I will have chips and not some tasteless, green, paper.
Since this was going to a deep and 'relationship defining' sort of conversation she decided to broach the subject when I was in a good, in fact the best of, moods. That is, just after sex. I had managed to persuade her to perform her oral duties by taking a firm grip on her neck and propelling her head in the general direction required. Realising I was not going to release her until she started she eventually got on with it, amidst a great deal of complaint.
'It's disgusting. Have you ever tried it?' she asked, trying, and failing miserably, to sound clever.
'Damn right I've tried it. Nearly broke my fucking neck. If I had two less vertebrae you would be lay there reading a book wondering when I was going to finish.'
On one memorable occasion she even tried to ruin my shit with the classic,
'I think you have had enough now.'
'NO' I said, shouting at an almost hysterical pitch 'I have not had enough. You will know exactly when I have had enough. There is a very clear and delineating point at which I have had enough, believe me, you will not miss it. This is not a grey area. Afterwards though grey may, at some point, enter into the proceedings.'
When it is time to reverse the roles, then suddenly it is not so disgusting. Apparently chewing on her mud flaps is showing her my caring and sensitive side. And they are always going on about the clitoris. What the bloody hell is a clitoris? I have seen the diagrams and the gynaecology photographs but the real thing is a much more baffling. Okay, I say, turning on the light and producing a mirror, you show me where it is. Doesn't that always produce a real quick change in direction? When asked to generate some evidence as to the existence of this fabled sex organ, there is suddenly some other pressing topic of conversation to be explored.
Like most women her timing is impeccably bad, and the only part of the conversation, whilst it was still a conversation and not an argument, that I managed to hear was
'Wake up! You are not resting your bloody eyes you are snoring, loudly, which is something else we are going to have to discuss.'
Then the bitch had the audacity to accuse me, writer, artist and poet warrior that I am, of being insensitive. One fact that exemplified my insensitivity was that I do not offer to massage her enough.
'You complained only the other day that I massage you too much.'
'Fondling my boobs in public is not a massage.'
'You have enormous breasts, what do you expect me to do?' and instantly it was an argument. As arguments go this one was not much of a challenge. It takes far more than a degree in sociology to make someone who is naturally a bit thick into an erudite wielder of a well turned phrase. She was even reduced to
'All those times we were making love, I was faking it.'
'Faking what?' I asked, genuinely surprised.
'Orgasm.' now shouting, as if she had achieved some great Napoleonic victory.
'You mean you were awake when I was having sex?' I said, laying particular emphasis on the singular, first person, pronoun. 'I thought the sex was fantastic.' I continued 'I hit the high notes and all my bells were ringing. Afterwards I would collapse deeply into the arms of Morpheus.'
'Well for me it was lousy.'
'Who cares?' I asked.
SLAP!
'Ouch' I replied and off, out of my life, she and her enormous breasts, went.
