My wife's ovulating. I'm in Rome. She's in London. This is a problem. My little tadpoles are finding it hard enough to swim the 10 inches up her tubes - asking them to bridge an ocean to boot is optimism bordering on hubris. The solution: she's coming to see me.
Miraculously, this last-minute decision somehow coincided with British Airways - presumably by accident - allowing her to use my airmiles to nip over here for just £78 tax. The odds on that happening are even less favourable than getting my wife pregnant. Perhaps it's a sign?
By the time she gets in, it's 11pm. I've switched off CSI Miami with Arabic subtitles, and already turned over. She's excitable. I need to be up in five hours. She tosses the lube on the bed, undresses and spreads her legs like a starfish. "This will be quick," I tell her, as if I needed to. I shoot my load, lift her legs up to let gravity work its magic, and fall asleep.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Saturday, July 10, 2010
It Started With a Wank
I'm lying in a bed at the Hammersmith hospital wanking to hardcore porn. I could have gone for the magazines, crammed into the corner chest of drawers as if by some absent-minded teenager. But thoughts of sticky-pages and misdirected ejaculations guide me naturally to the TV remote. I press the red button.
On the screen, a ruddy-faced blond appears. She's looking over her shoulder, towards camera, as she's penetrated, front and back, by two men whose combined age probably adds up to hers. The air is cool. Following the instructions on the wall (which end with the quip: "and it doesn't make you go blind.") I lie on my back, sweaty cycling shorts and pants round my ankles, and aim my fire into the glass pot provided. How did it, er, come to this?
My wife's just turned 35. After six month's of trying, we'd still had no joy. So we went to see my GP. I should have twigged when I made the appointment, but it was only when my name was called that I realised the doctor was a girl I was at primary school with. The thought of "posho" fondling my balls and asking me how often I poke my missus was not, I'll admit, a scenario I'd prepared for. To her credit, she asked us if we wanted another doctor. We did. And 15 minutes later - with my wife waiting outside - I was having my balls fondled by a strange man as he asked me how often I poked my missus.
With Mrs C back in the room, she told him we focus our fire on the days she ovulates. We religiously followed her fertility sticks, only to be told by the doc that there's no evidence they actually work, and they're quite expensive (Mrs C disagrees).
He referred me to Hammersmith Hospital's Andrology Unit. A couple of hours later, decked out in Lycra, I hopped on my Specialized roadbike and headed over. Dismount. Look for a place to lock my bike. Find one. Only to be told by reception that, although we're in Hammersmith, this hospital is actually the Charing Cross Hospital. Hammersmith Hospital is back up in White City. It's 1145am and Andrology closes at noon. I hop back on the bike, and, invoking the spirit of Mark Cavendish, bomb it back up north.
I make it with two minutes to spare. The lady at reception is very understanding. I sit in the waiting room, and wait. To my left sits an increasingly irascible skin-head with tattoos painted all the way down his arm. He huffs, and sighs, resigned to his fate. Opposite, an obese man with crutches, who's probably on benefits, chats with his wife. A sheepish-looking man who looks like a sheep - the spawn of Rory McGrath for those who remember him - plops himself down in the corner. Number four, a diminutive Sri-Lankan, sits quietly with his wife, waiting his turn. I avoid eye-contact. Everyone in this room knows why everyone else is here. Everyone here knows that their manhood is on the line. An hour later, I'm in.
Concentrating on the task in hand, several other thoughts swirl around my mind. Like who in the NHS has the job of procuring porn? Please G-d let everything be okay. And, not to be sniffed at, for the first time in my life a wank has been given official sanction.
On the screen, a ruddy-faced blond appears. She's looking over her shoulder, towards camera, as she's penetrated, front and back, by two men whose combined age probably adds up to hers. The air is cool. Following the instructions on the wall (which end with the quip: "and it doesn't make you go blind.") I lie on my back, sweaty cycling shorts and pants round my ankles, and aim my fire into the glass pot provided. How did it, er, come to this?
My wife's just turned 35. After six month's of trying, we'd still had no joy. So we went to see my GP. I should have twigged when I made the appointment, but it was only when my name was called that I realised the doctor was a girl I was at primary school with. The thought of "posho" fondling my balls and asking me how often I poke my missus was not, I'll admit, a scenario I'd prepared for. To her credit, she asked us if we wanted another doctor. We did. And 15 minutes later - with my wife waiting outside - I was having my balls fondled by a strange man as he asked me how often I poked my missus.
With Mrs C back in the room, she told him we focus our fire on the days she ovulates. We religiously followed her fertility sticks, only to be told by the doc that there's no evidence they actually work, and they're quite expensive (Mrs C disagrees).
He referred me to Hammersmith Hospital's Andrology Unit. A couple of hours later, decked out in Lycra, I hopped on my Specialized roadbike and headed over. Dismount. Look for a place to lock my bike. Find one. Only to be told by reception that, although we're in Hammersmith, this hospital is actually the Charing Cross Hospital. Hammersmith Hospital is back up in White City. It's 1145am and Andrology closes at noon. I hop back on the bike, and, invoking the spirit of Mark Cavendish, bomb it back up north.
I make it with two minutes to spare. The lady at reception is very understanding. I sit in the waiting room, and wait. To my left sits an increasingly irascible skin-head with tattoos painted all the way down his arm. He huffs, and sighs, resigned to his fate. Opposite, an obese man with crutches, who's probably on benefits, chats with his wife. A sheepish-looking man who looks like a sheep - the spawn of Rory McGrath for those who remember him - plops himself down in the corner. Number four, a diminutive Sri-Lankan, sits quietly with his wife, waiting his turn. I avoid eye-contact. Everyone in this room knows why everyone else is here. Everyone here knows that their manhood is on the line. An hour later, I'm in.
Concentrating on the task in hand, several other thoughts swirl around my mind. Like who in the NHS has the job of procuring porn? Please G-d let everything be okay. And, not to be sniffed at, for the first time in my life a wank has been given official sanction.
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