Thursday, October 20, 2005

Dog in the manger

We meet again, what?

I normally leave this thing alone for a week or so at a time, to let you suck on the bones of my deep-fried truth nuggets, as it were, but my failing memory has been jogged and recollections of tall tales from the weekend come flooding back.

You know as well as I that there is only so much time you can spend debating the merits of your local sports team before the conversation drifts towards matters of a sub-navel nature. For the less well-educated among you, I am of course, referring to "the sex" or "having it off".

One of our little group of thinkers said, a propos of nothing, "You know, I've only had anal sex about ten or a dozen times".

This was clearly meant to confound and astound us that The Great Lover had not, as we may have suspected, been kicking in more back doors than Regan and Carter.

Indeed, there was quite a hush in the conversation, broken only by my enquiry "What's the matter, did it hurt your little arse?"

He didn't like that.

Eager to make amends, I related this sorry tale from my own past.

"It was the late eighties, you couldn't swing a cat without tripping over drugged-up mancunians in bell-bottom trousers or ageing scousers becoming aroused when discussing adidas trainers they had worn.

They were great times, my friend, the second summer of love was in full flight and even an old fuddy-duddy such as I was capable of getting some.

I had been "doing a bit" with an older lady for a couple of weeks when it happened.

After an evening spent drinking in low taverns and the Cooperage night spot, we were sharing a tender moment in her boudoir. The bedroom door was slightly ajar, affording an opportunity for the lady's springer spaniel to make an appearance.

Far from acting the jealous guardian of his mistress' domain, he was keen to join in the fun. To this end, he proceeded to give my exposed bottom a thorough licking. He couldn't have lapped more attentively had he been adminstering to his own ballbag.

You can imagine the horror and disgust I must have felt.

Well you imagine wrong, smarty-pants, it was fucking brilliant. The added stimulus perked me up good and proper and when proceedings concluded I went off like a bottle rocket.

My lady friend, while slightly bemused by the canine assistance, was rather pleased with the additional vim and vigour it brought to our cavortings. In fact, this added frisson prolonged the relationship long past its allotted shelf life.

If the truth be told she wasn't the most beautiful woman and I, young fool that I was, believed that every woman I looked at was mine for the taking. Yet the lure of unorthodox bedroom antics constantly drew me back.

That, and popping around to take the dog for a walk.

It all ended badly when she discovered I had started smearing the old tea-towel holder with Pedigree Chum.

I've forgotten her name now, but I'll forever cherish the memory of Scamp and his delightful rasping tongue and cold, wet nose."

I told them that story and they called me a lying old porvort.

Let me tell you this, my internet pals, that story is as true as my name is Colonel Knowledge.

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