Tag Archives: The Red Room

Favourite Shirt


favourite short blogpost picture
Copyright © Pia Ines




I want you to wear me

like your favourite shirt;

close to your skin –

for your fingers to linger

on the buttons, on the rims

as you smooth me across your chest

smiling at the mirror to know

how I look best on you.


I want to be that collar

that may kiss your nape all evening –

play with your hair


as it brushes my mouth and makes me glow


in a way that only you and I may know

about lips upon skin upon hair

upon skin…

about limbs…

lost in limbs…


I want to be your favourite shirt in summer

with nothing between us but the odour of our seasons

you granting me every reason

to saunter where I will;

ride the smoothness of your back

nestle in your armpits

tuck myself in your slacks

hug your waist

as we sit…

I’d get to follow you everywhere

with no-one suspecting

why that smile

plays for more than a while

on your lips as you smooth

again and smooth again

and smooth never enough

that favourite shirt

from the collar


down to my hips.


(from The Red Room)



Boy Queen

red throat clear

In the morning when I coyed your skin

it felt

like velvet fur

your Nubian lips glossed

by the yolk

of the rising sun.

You made me sigh

I made you


you showed me all your graces

your fire and desire

you made me sigh…


made you cry but

kissed such



Wearing on mine

your pith turned child

beautiful bright boy

my prince

some being born out of the

queen in flight


as the night was warm

was thinly clothed

with shy whispers

crumpled by the

wrath of sheets.

You showed me the

soft side


dark side

showed me

the wildcat


beneath that

African pride…

disclosed your

every shade

of woman

to my man

who kissed away

lone tears

who cradled that

fragility till anxiety had


bodies cascading

in moments


to years

(from The Red Room)


I want to do to you
as the sunlight to the soles of the leaves
as the night to our sighs
before joy inebriates us to sleep.

I want to do to you
as birdsong, tossed recklessly to the arms of the sky
as the brook to the pebbles’ moss
furled at her feet.

I want to do to you
as the forgotten strand of hair to the skin
as the horizon laced to our deepest wish
galloping, galloping.

I want to do to you
as the murderous downpour to the
new-born petal
as the meteor
searing the flesh
of the violet night
as the beast to the virgin…

I am the thunder to your stars
I am the blossom
I am the rock.

I am the silence of your heartbeat
stilled by the temple of our love.

I am the fire to your fears
I am the church-bell to your devout ears.

I am the bud
thrusting to life
in your sunshine.

I am that moment:
frozen green.

I am the valet to your needs.

I am you, you are me
in a pyre, the debris of our limbs
fanned by our blessed mournful cries.

I am the musk to your rose
pining my name when I have
drinking my smell as it hovers
on in a languid mist
over your golden cornfield.

I am the joyous fly
in your silken

I am ocean
I am language
I the vagabond
scouring your territory
for I want to do to you:

as the butterfly to the heart of the child

as the salt to the pearls in her sea

as the candle to the night

as sunlight to Bernstein.


(from The Red Room)

Sex, lies & promises: for better or worse?

Fidelity is an illusion. I have always cheated on my wives, and they have all cheated on me. Women lie. Men lie. That’s life. I am very faithful, but not as far as sex goes. Sex is part of life and it’s as natural as breathing. Don’t ruin it with false morals or too much thinking.

Don’t get attached, for I will not love you. I don’t love anyone, apart from my children. Women have broken my heart too often, I refuse to love any of you. Any more…

I can swear anything you want me to: on the head of my children or my mother or put my hand the bloody Bible if anyone asks me to swear to something, what do I care, I’m not a believer. But if I give you my word… ah! My word…

These are your best days. Live them to the full. I see my ex-wives and loads of women over fifty, they still have the desire, but their best days are done. I even give my ex-wives tips on how to pull a bloke on the internet cos they don’t know how and it gets harder the older you get as a woman. You, you are in your prime. Live without regret.

The first thing She does when She gets in is to check the sheets. For stains. For ruffles. The first thing I do once my ladylove leaves is to do the sheets. Pull them straight, or at least Her side, and maybe leave the bed unmade so it looks as if I’ve just got up. I keep my ladylove on my side of the mattress. Get her not to wear any strong perfumes or creams and that stuff. I want to smell you, not some high-tech lab that lines its pockets with all your female complexes. She’ll check the sheets. I’ve been loving and lying for decades, so let Her.

I can feel the tension between you and You Know that you’re not even able to retain behind the wall of your teeth when you talk about the two of you. It pours out of you like a gas. It’s purely thanks to your decent upbringing that the two of you desist from bashing each other. And it’s all to do with sex. Sex is the most destructive, the most creative force in the world. And I, I spread the good news, like Jesus. I say Love, but nobody wants to listen. I threaten them, their old established values that they blindly hang on to like a flea on the backside of some beast. I threaten their world order. People are so afraid of change, I’m amazed we’ve even made it so far. And in their fear, they will lash out and crucify me. Blot out my light with their broad reproachful shoulders, flagellate those whom I have redeemed till they bend, till they bow, unable to seek solace in a promised land, which is none other than this one. Right here. Right now. I must die. And you, you, too, will kill me. One day. One day you won’t need me anymore. I’m just a palliative. You will move on. And I will die. On the inside.

(from Carmina’s Burana, Take One, in The Red Room)


You cannot love a man for all your life.

But you can live with him. You can live with him whilst you love him, though sooner or later, that love will fade to irritation and putrefy to hate. The art therein is to wait.

Wait… Till hate has healed to indifference, then you will find him livable once more,

beyond love,
beyond hate’s horizon;
from the better,
to the worse, to the:
oh well, I guess that’ll just have to do.
For it will, you know.

How courageous are you, daughter of mine?
How needy?
Or greedy?
How steady, or ready to go it alone,
if you believe yourself to have outgrown the love that made you bloom
before it made you wither?

A man should
be your reason to be,
so let him be; let him stay around,
on the periphery.

This ring
on my finger?
Take a good look.
Been there for centuries.
It’s on my finger, right?
Not in my mind…

Daughter of mine, your skin still so smooth,
not splattered
with mildew
like mine.
You have so much time…
so much…

Your hands…
your pretty, dainty hands. Where’s your ring?
Oh, that’s right, you have never wanted one. Your mother took hers off, too, after all those years, tho the bloody thing refused to budge and after grease and spit and nothing else would do, I had to get an old pair of pliers to cut the thing in two.
You have never wanted one,
have you?

Daughter’s daughter,
you think you don’t
need him.
Maybe not,
only you can tell.
Cover my desiccated hands with your freshness.

What was I saying?
Ah, yes….

But you know, men?
They’ll always be around.
That’s the problem,

so might as well learn
to live wiv em.

(from Genderlogue, in The Red Room)


When my gran comes with this old time talk about how good we wimmin have it today and she can’t understand why so many relationships split up cos hell, they had it real hard back then but they’re still together. They had a long day’s work and still had to come home and cook and clean and boil the shit out of nappies whereas today all we do is buy and throw away. We live in a throw away society, she bemoans, and we’ve thrown away an eye for what really counts. She says we’re spoilt! I say gran, by all respect, if you’ve got the right to vote, had people fight for your right to vote and then you get it after all this time, fool for you if you don’t use it. I say I can’t imagine a slave staying on once (s)he has the right to be free, but she says the comparison ain’t valid, a husband’s not your master, and I’ve been spending too much time in the wrong company that much was plain to see. A husband’s not your master, I say? Great, we agree that we’re equals, then? I say, if he can fuck around, I can fuck around. These here are modern times. And she says, you don’t have to stoop as low as they do. You gots to keep your dignity. And watch your language! I say, where’s the dignity in that, grandma? Well, she says, if you can’t take it, his womanising, cos they can’t help it, it’s in their nature, then get out, but don’t stoop as low as him; all those years of schoolin n still so stupid, child? Always make sure you can walk with your head held high. God gave you a brain and it’s not between your legs and it’s not just there to keep your ears in place, so use it. Who’s he foolin around with, then, grandma, I ask. Is he foolin around with a sheep? Is he foolin around with a dog? If he’s foolin around with another woman, then isn’t it in our nature, too? If you’re a whore, alright, she says, but I don’t want no whores in my family. If God had wanted men and wimmin to be the same, He’d have made em the same. He didn’t, so don’t you think you can do better. They’re one half and you’re the other half. Make sure you’re the better half and not no whore. I ain’t no whore, grandma, I’m just a woman. A modern woman. I want to say, with needs, but I know better. A modern woman, are you, she snorts. Well, don’t be. Be an intelligent one. And hold your heddup!

(from Mut@us)

For the records: that’s where it all starts (or stops?)

When I was 18, it was time to do my military service. I had nothing against the army, so in I went. At the interview, I told them, Honestly, I said, I do want to come to the army, but, please, find something for me to do which doesn’t involve being bossed around, it does my head in. I can’t take it. I’ll be a cook, whatever. Just make sure I can be on my own with no-one lording it over me, otherwise I could end up killing him.
The dickhead who interviewed me, sergeant, captain, whatever, just laughed.
‘Who do you think you are?’ he bellowed. ‘You won’t be the first prick we’ll have brought to bow, and you certainly won’t be the last!’
You see, that’s where it starts: power, power, power, I sighed. I don’t think he quite knew what to make of my response. He was all red in the face. Me? I stayed nice and calm. And very, very polite.
‘You and your army, you think you’re capable of everything, but…’
Let him wait, let him already start to get himself all worked up all over again,
‘but… you’ll never be able to drive out what’s up here, by me,’ and I tapped my head. ‘So, ok,’
I let my fingertips touch to form a steeple. I looked him straight in the eye.
‘I’ll come to your army. I’ll follow your orders. The first who does me wrong, I’ll swallow it. The second, I’ll swallow it. I’ll be brought to bow, as you so nicely put it. But one day, one fine day, you will put a firearm into my hand. We’re in the army, after all… And once I have this firearm, I’m going to go out and kill every single one of you who has ever wronged me, and that, sergeant, will be your fault. Now, I’ve told you, haven’t I, so now I want that in writing, the fact that I told you that, for when the day comes.’
You could see the colour drain out of him like you were drinking him with a straw. He ordered me to the psychiatric department, where I was kept for five days. Did all manner of tests, they did. Then they came to the conclusion that I was a deeply honest person, but extremely dangerous, as I supported no authority over me whatsoever. That’s what’s written in my military record.

I was ordered home.

(from Verses Nature)


A ruthless man,
am I?

Do you like opera? I do.

One of my favourite operas is Puccini’s La Bohème. Have you seen it? I’ve seen it on three separate occasions.

The first time I saw it, when it got to the part where the heroine is killed, I was so taken into the plot that I just keeled over and fainted. Bam!

The second time I went to see it, I thought I was better prepared. I thought I’d brace myself when it got to that part. But when it did finally get to that part of the plot, don’t ask me why, I just felt myself sliding off my chair; slowly, slowly, till I crumpled to the floor. Out again!

The next time I went to see La Bohème, I thought I would be immune. I knew what was coming, and I knew when, so I considered myself to be in complete control.

My auntie’s fanny, was I. They carried me out on a stretcher.

There will, alas, be no fourth or future encounter between myself and Mr  Puccini, for I am everything but the ruthless man I am said to be…

(from The Red Room)

Perfume: yellow up the front, brown up the back

I am as I am
I please whom I please
What is it to you
What has happened to me
Yes, I did love someone
Yes, this someone loved me
As young kids love each other
How to love one another
And that with such glee…

Can be mean little buggers as well, though, can’t they? They’ll slit open animals for the fun of it and lie through their teeth. They’re the best and worst in us in miniature. Whatever.


I love the smell of you. After you had gone the other day, I refused to wash myself. She came home later, wanting, the usual, but I couldn’t touch her. She slept on her side of the bed and I on mine. (Yes, she recollected, he had pulled her to that side of the bed…) I on mine, enveloped in the odour of your juice and sweat. She? She washes at least ten times a day, how’s a man supposed to get excited if he doesn’t have the smell of you in his nose? We wash far too often. Should only wash when we really need to. You should get Him not to wash for a while so he stinks of man, then you give him a royal blow job, he’ll spray like a whale, I swear.
You, you smell fantastic, your tight, juicy foufoun. I read a book once, in French it’s called Le Nez; The Nose. Know it? It’s about a man who kills virgins so he can use their odour to produce the ultimate perfume. That’s one crazy shit, but I understand him. When I sniff my fingers, hhmm, I smell you. I run my fingers under my nose right in front of her, and remember you. I’m not going to wash that bedsheet. Going to keep it somewhere safe so I can smell you when I want to.

My wedding day, right? First marriage, and I’m at my in-laws. The future bride and her parents had gone to the hairdresser’s. We were celebrating the wedding at home, so the bride’s family had asked a neighbour to help out with serving the guests. She was a young, unattractive girl. Come and help me, come and scrub my back for me, I called out to her. She came and scrubbed my back. Thick as a plank, she was. Get in the tub…  She was a country lass and boy, did she smell of c(o)untry. I moved my head down there to get a whiff of her, but believe me, one whiff was enough, even for a man like me. We had a real good shag right there in the bathtub. Then I got dressed and got married.

In the village of my childhood, you wore your underwear for the whole week and washed at the weekend. (Girls as well?) of course girls as well! The air was rank by Friday! And our culottes yellow up the front, brown up the back. (You look happy at the recollection of it…) of course I was happy! Life was simple, but sweet… This is the smell I have in my nostrils till today. This smell, this innocence, of unwashed sex.
In the old days, all the children slept in one bed. Of course there was incest going on. So what? You always hear about fathers raping their daughters. Now you listen to me. Half the time, it’s not rape at all. Those girls want it. They want to make the experience, then when they get jealous of their fathers, they accuse him of rape to get their own back and the poor bastard ends up in prison. We were kids, but we weren’t doing anything abnormal, see? Kids are like this. Kids are sexual beings, too.
Boys were trying it out amongst themselves as well of course they were. I saw my brother get buggered by the boy next door. He was a good bit older than us and he’d often come over to sleep at our place on a Saturday night. Once I heard these noises coming from my brother’s bedroom. I went in, flicked on the light. My brother was on his knees, this other big boy had him by the hips and was giving him a royal humping. I think I said something like; you dirty bastards, that’s what girls are for! I think I also grabbed something and beat my brother across the backside with it. He knows I saw him though we’ve never openly spoken about it. See, it was just like that and do you think things have changed? Are you saying that I come from a family of mental cases? (So, who was humping you…?) I’ll tell you one thing, though: it doesn’t smell the same…

I am as I am
And it’s right that way
What more do you want
What more must I say…

(preview from Verses Nature, first published in The Red Room )

The aim of the game: (when trust is more important than honesty)

Hardly has he entered me but he expels an anguished cry of elation. With the single thrust of penetration, the act was over. Just as I had feared. Just as he had feared.
– Kill me!
He hides his face. Insuperable shame. Hatred.
– Please, just kill me…
I run my hand along his spine, my eyes closed. My body, likewise. My mind searching for what to say in response, and deciding upon silence, for some requests are not amenable to a positive answer.

A day later, we make love again. He is sitting on the edge of the bed as I straddle him. He lasts three or four thrusts. Wait awhile, he breathes-lessly into my face. We’ll do it a second time. He thrusts and thrusts, but there is no force behind it. Wait awhile. I need to get a little bit harder…
I don’t like the position and tell him such. Down on all fours, I spread my legs. Raise my ass…
But his soft willy won’t stay anywhere. He stuffs himself into me. Slips out. Stuffs himself in again.
Wait awhile, he breathes like a man performing hard work, his hips chiselling away at me, but I feel hollow inside.
– No!
I pull away.
I will not wait! You fix that hard-on, then, maybe, we’ll try again.
Okay, he husks, rubbing, rubbing himself.
I won’t look, but I can hear it, the slosh of his semen, dabbling with my juice.
– Just wait a little bit. Just a little bit longer…
He talks to himself, to his penis, like a coach to his team before the match. It doesn’t take long for me to detect that change in the quality of his voice. I seize the opportunity to stop his hand, gently, with my own, before, or as it seems to me, he rubs himself raw. There is no recrimination in the language of my touch. It simply lets him know that I know:

game over.


– Tell me something?
– Shoot.
– You said you always have at least two women, right?
– Correct.
– So, there must have been another woman apart from your wife before you met me, right?
He smiles
– Where is she now? What happened to her?
– I saw her yesterday, we went flying and then for a meal…
– You don’t sleep with her anymore?
– Nope.
– And you expect me to believe that?
– Yep. I’ll show you a picture of her. (He shows her a photo of her in his cell-phone) and there’s her… (a different photo) and her… and she’s nice… and I really like this one…
– How do you manage?
– What?
– To juggle so many women?
– Piece a cake.
– God, you don’t mind admitting all of this to me?
– Why should I?
– Does your wife know?
– Why should She?

I, Tatar, am faithful of the heart, if not of the body. Don’t try to change me. It is my only weakness.

– I don’t want to get involved in your private affairs, but you’ve pulled me in so I’ll speak my mind. Have you told You Know straight to the face that he’s a lousy lay? You should’ve told him from day one that he was lousy. He might have made more of an effort.
– He’s making an effort now…
– Too late. He’s lost you.
– I’m inclined to think that there’s a woman out there, somewhere, who wants exactly what He’s giving. But that woman sure as hell ain’t me.
– Then get out of it!
– You’re not just with someone for the sex!
– What else?
– Well, for the companionship, etc…
– Get yourself a dog. Companionship, fair enough, but without the sex, your relationship is dead. It’s just friendship. Sooner or later you’ll leave him. And he knows it. I made the mistake of telling my wives about my mistresses, you know, in a moment of trust, like this one now. It spoilt everything afterwards and they always threw it back in my face. Don’t ever tell You Know about me. Ever. Maybe he’s keeping a mistress, too. Or he should. That way you get to save your life together and enjoy those bits of your relationship which do you good. If he lets you know or you let him know, then the trust is out the door. You need trust if a relationship is going to work. Trust is more important than honesty.


(adapted from The Red Room)

Definitions: are for people without character

Erotica isn’t the right term for what I do. Could call it high heat… maybe. We’re all being told to do something original, right? On the other hand we’re also told we have to be able to allocate that originality to a neat, pre-fixed term so the marketing wheels can turn smoothly. And there’s always some grump who, once s/he’s read it, wants to sling your work into a category it doesn’t belong to. God, I’ve met enough of those! Leave off with the definitions, will you? Definitions are for people without character.

I only hope she doesn’t go for one of those erotica template book covers when Verses Nature is out. That’d be such an insult. A bit of style to match the man, if you please: no tits, arse or any amount of flesh anywhere.


Now, let’s get down to business. Read this:


‘The basement is everywhere. Water leaks like dark shadows on the bare cement, looking like silvery snakes streaming from the corners of the windows. When it rains you can see the rivers pulsing. Once the little trails reach the floor, they widen as they seep into the floor, heading toward the drain. A corner houses shelves of limping cardboard, labeled by a thin marker zigzag that can’t be read because there’s no light over there. We call this the dungeon and sometimes it’s where Barbie goes when she’s mad. I give the pink corvette a push and she sails into the scary shadows. In the corner by the steps, old sheets and sleeping bags are weighted down on ledges and chairs, or twisted in knots around the hollow metal poles, supporting the forts and tents of our imaginations. We hear creatures in the jungle. I feel the breath of wings. The trees from where the wild things live loom over us in faded pencil scratches.’

The Basement, by Amy Jo Sprague


Beautiful, Amy. No other word for it. The pain, the fear, tussling in/with the shadows. Faded pencil scratches… The use of space…

Had a crappy childhood, didn’t you? Join the club:

My father was a bastard. A violent bastard. He would hit my mother, and he hit my brother and me, too. Once, when I was six…

The boy in the shorts, the belt, the screams, the lash, the fury, the father, the belt, bursting to beat the truth out of the boy on the commode, the belt, the screams,

“It was not me and it was not me, however you may beat me…”

The sweat, the tears, the lash-


The mother…

The belt, on the mother, on the boy, on the mother, on the boy on the commode, on the mother fallen to the floor with her hands round her head, the mother at the feet of the boy who insists…

“It was not me, however you beat me…”


Leather nailed to their skins. Father, wide-legged, up to his knees in the blood, in sweat, in the salt of his fury; of their defencelessness. The sweat that turned to blood that turned to water that turned to the wine of the blood of the Christ the boy was being taught to honour: to love thy father, for thy father loves thee…

The hurt, stacked high like dirty dishes, like the corpses in a common still uncovered grave, fresh insult congealing atop old. The stench courted by the wind and cavorted away so the two may play, may forget; the boy, the tears, the mother, the tears. The shame.

The rage.

The hate.


Where were the stories, where the laughter that was my birthright if They were right? The laughter of communion? There were only sighs, mother breathing out, out, out…

I had to practise laughter like a fiddle, an accordion, pull it apart, make it wheeze like my mother’s sighs, pluck at it, slide across the gut of its strange melody that clung to the crevices of my mouth, fearful of the drop. But because I had been robbed of my birthright, because this right-turned-foreigner was naught to me how easy then to shove it in the back and watch it tumble with an anguished squeal, a noise, unnameable,

untraceable to an origin beyond my birth and her own.


all achievement but a quest for the origin of the (M)other, and being (m)other, frustrating our self-appointed imperative to control, to name –

we call her (M)other, but never by her true name –

we make do with surrogates and are reared to keep that secret: I miss you, what is your name, in truth I have never wished to be weaned, ever… the original, perpetual cry of all sons… to live (what we call Life) is but to long for that other unnameable by which I may see you as you are, at whose communion – unnameables embraced in forgiveness – and only then will there be light, will there be honesty.

What does my mother see when she sees me?

Herself, her redoubtable past thrown back at her is why she does not want to see me, never looks (straight) at me but through and around me, a stone parting the maternal shame of her regrets, I am but a bad memory, cursed mirror to un-suspend, face-to-back in a cupboard in a room no one uses; mirrored darkness, secrets ad infinitum.



…Like I said: Father was a violent bastard. Mother was a lying bitch. She told us a load of bollocks, which we, as children, believed. Looking back, I now  know it was a load of bollocks and that she was a lying bitch. She’d go out at night all the time, to meet her lover. The same lover for forty years, instead of bringing him home to be our father. I would have liked to have had a father. A father, and a family, instead of faded pencil scratches.

(adapted from The Red Room)

The beginning (of the end of the life of a couple)

Madam, in bed
half dead
her skin as thin
as watery as her eyes,
lids seal with blue lines

sleep-denying pain.

I have been sitting by her bedside ever since the ordeal was over.

The nurse lifts herself to her silent feet


She rearranges the heavy covers (heirloom) around the mother’s fevering neck.
Outside, the winter, banished from the room by dark.drapes,
is creeping around the other entries to the house

s s s s s h h h h h h h

and stealing in through an opened kitchen window, where the servants go about their chores in subdued manoeuvres.

It was a boy. The boy was dead. Dead, rotting, and trapped inside that narrow passage-way, for hours

whilst his beloved mother; screaming and thrashing.

Unprepared for any such complications, the doctor sends the nurse to fetch the cook, who,
full of her importance,
there she goes,
bustling up the stairs
yet remembering her manners well enough to throw a mild glance  (and a curtsy) at the master of the house as he –  up and down in the Main Hall.

But the child is dead. A boy.
somewhere on my way I got jabbed and I fell down

The Master snatches his shotgun and marches off to the stables.


Having children’s the beginning of the end of the life of a couple… As a man, you take the back seat from then on. As long as you know this, ‘spose it’s alright.
    Having children massacres a woman’s body… that’s another cause for the beginning of the end. Childbirth pulls her all out of shape n leaves a gaping hole that nobody ever talks about. Muscular re-education classes: what a load of crap! Did your midwife say to you: after childbirth, your tight little pussy’ll turn into a bloody tunnel n when he’s up there, he won’t feel a thing? Oh, didn’t she? I wonder why… You know any woman who’ll ever admit that her fanny feels different after childbirth? Yeah, yeah, it supposedly creaks back into place like an old church door… You can feel the contractions of it, and then everything’s hunky-dory.

Bull. Shit.

    Friend of mine paid a humongous amount to a doctor to make sure his wife delivered by Caesarian…
    She’ll only tighten up again when she’s pregnant once more. It gets nice n tight and it’s great for a man to be in there. Don’t know why so many women feel it’s wrong to have sex when you’re pregnant. It’s great! I’ve treated myself to a couple of pregnant women. Marvellous! Won’t find noffing better. I got onto the womanising track when my first wife fell pregnant. Didn’t want me to touch her anymore. Pas touche? Her loss, not mine. Plenty more fish in the sea, n’est-ce pas? But then the child gets born, and it’s flappity flap all over again… You see those young mums with their great figures; narrow hips, perky backsides? All well n good, but if they birthed naturally, I don’t give a toss how narrow their hips are, there’s a whacking great hole in the middle. And those girls, children you almost have to say; thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, who’re already mums, what a shame. You can write them off for life… Why do you think husbands drift towards anal sex? Cos they want to feel something! Problem with anal sex, though, is that the women take a liking to it, then don’t want it any other way. Yeah, and why do they take a liking to it, hey? Hey? Me? I go the anal way with women who’ve had their children naturally, cos some of them’ve got a fanny on em that’s so loose, fit your whole hand inside. Two even. And clap. Same goes for some backsides, sorry to say…
    Men shouldn’t assist at childbirth if you ask me. She’ll be screaming, farting, crapping, saying vile things to and about you and you, idiot, are sposed to just stand there saying Yes darling as you squeeze her hand or mop her friggin brow? Then there’s the pushing and gushing and out it plops as from a sewer. It’s probably yours, but you’re still too shocked by what you’ve witnessed to feel anything nearing pride. Puts a man off for life. You’ll never really want to be in there again. Ever. But we’re not allowed to say that about wifey, are we?

    Well, better trot along with all the others and show him my sad eyes. Like I care.


(adapted from The Red Room)